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THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

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LOS  ANGELES 


NO    NAME    SERIES. 


BABY     RUE. 


NO    NAME    SERIES. 

"Is  THE  GENTLEMAN  ANONYMOUS?   Is  HE  A  GREAT  UNKNOWN?" 

DANIEL  DERONDA. 


BABY  RUE. 


[HER   ADVENTURES   AND    MISADVENTURES, 
HER  FRIENDS  AND  HER  ENEMIES.] 


BOSTON: 

ROBERTS     BROTHERS. 
1881. 


Copyright,  1881, 
BY  ROBERTS  BROTHERS. 


ps 


CONTENTS. 


PART  I.  PAGE 

CAMP  AND  GARRISON 11 

PART  II. 
MOUNT  HOPE 61 

PART  III. 
BOUIK'S  HILL 73 

PART  IV. 
BABY  RUE 107 

PART  V. 
THE  PURSUIT 133 

PART  VI. 
THE  CONFLICT 188 

PART  VH. 

COACOOCHEE      ...  ....      241 


1703658 


THE  blessed  damozel  leaned  out 

From  the  gold  bar  of  Heaven  ; 
Her  eyes  were  deeper  than  the  depth 

Of  waters  stilled  at  even  ; 
She  had  three  lilies  in  her  hand, 

And  the  stars  in  her  hair  were  seven. 

And  still  she  bowed  herself,  and  stooped 

Out  of  the  circling  charm, 
Until  her  bosom  must  have  made 

The  bar  she  leaned  on  warm, 
And  the  lilies  lay  as  if  asleep 

Along  her  bended  arm. 

And  now 

She  spoke  through  the  still  weather, 
Her  voice  was  like  the  voice  the  stars 
Had  when  they  sang  together. 

DANTE  GABRIEL  ROSSETTI. 


PART  I. 

CAMP  AND  GARRISON. 


STILL  when  she  slept,  he  kept  both  watch  and  ward  ; 
And,  when  she  wakt,  he  wayted  diligent, 
With  humble  service  to  her  will  prepared  ; 
From  her  fayre  eyes  he  took  commandement, 
And  ever  by  her  lookes  conceived  her  intent. 

SPENSER. 


BABY    RUE. 


PART   L 

CAMP  AND  GARRISON. 


CHAPTER    I. 

So  I  '11  not  seek  nor  sue  her, 
But  I  '11  leave  my  glory  to  woo  her, 
And  I  '11  stand  like  a  child  beside, 
And  from  behind  the  purple  pride 

I  '11  lift  my  eyes  unto  her, 

And  I  shall  not  be  denied. 

SIDNEY  DOBEU.. 

"  TT  is  hard  to  leave  without  seeing  her,  without  a 

±  word  of  farewell.  Yet  it  is  the  right  and  honorable 
thing  for  me  to  do.  " 

The  words  were  uttered  unconsciously,  as  the  speaker 
turned  into  Pennsylvania  Avenue.- 

"  Hillo,  Leszinksky,  in  travelling  rig?  Where  the 
devil  are  you  going,  this  night  of  all  others?  I  had 
heard  of  your  return  from  Albemarle  this  afternoon, 
and  was  sure  I  should  meet  you  at  the  Corcorans'  at 
Miss  Cartaret's  birthday  ball." 

"  No,  I  cannot  go.  I  was  on  my  way  to  look  j'ou 
up.  I  leave  to-night  for  the  West.  I  have  dispatches 
from  the  Secretary  for  Newport  and  St.  Louis." 

"  Oh,  then  I  suppose  you  have  made  your  adieux  to 
'  rare,  fair,  queenly  Margaret.' " 

"  No,  I  have  not  seen  her  for  the  last  two  weeks. 
Part  of  the  time,  as  yon  know,  I  was  in  Albemarle. 
You  did  not  know,  however,  that  it  was  a  farewell  visit. 
I  am  transferred  to  the  dragoons.  I  join  in  St.  Louis, 


12  BABY  RUE. 

and  we  shall  leave  immediately  for  service  on  the  fron 
tier." 

"  You?  Why,  I  thought  you  were  a  fixture  in  "Wash 
ington.  A  cousin  of  the  Secretary,  and  ordered  to  the 
plains  ?  Damn  it ! *  What  good  are  relations  ?  If  the 
War  Department  serve  you  such  sauce,  what  the  h — 1 
will  they  do  with  a  poor  devil  like  me  ?  " 

"  You  are  a  lucky  }-oungster,  Carson,  and  so  will 
fare  better  than  you  deserve.  My  going  will  make  a 
vacancy  that  may  sweep  }"ou  with  the  tide  to  fortune." 

14  Sweep  me  down  a  gutter  into  the  Potomac  more 
likely !  I  only  wanted  to  stay  in  Washington  if  you  were 
here.  It  was  a  touch-and-go  that  brought  me  through 
the  West  Point  squeeze  last  year,  after  you  left.  Your 
sermons  and  sister  Mary's  praying  were  the  spurs  that 
carried  me  up  the  home-stretch.  And  now,  when  I  have  a 
shoulder-strap,  if  I  'm  not  with  you  to  learn  to  crowj'our 
fashion,  the  devil  will  be  sure  to  find  me  a  special  tutor." 

"  If  3*ou  would  like  to  go  with  me  out  on  the  plains, 
3'oungster,  mend  your  manners  and  your  speech,  and  I 
will  try  my  interest  with  the  Secretary.  If  you  are  not 
in  a  hurry  for  the  ball,  come  with  me  now.  I  am  to 
stop  at  his  house  on  my  way  to  the  station." 

On  under  the  lamps  walked  the  young  comrades. 
Stanislaus  Leszinksky,  then  just  twenty-two  years  old, 
but  aged  before  his  time  by  the  burden  of  care  he  had 
taken  in  his  boyhood  from  the  frail,  thin  hands  of  his 
mother,  and  later  from  his  grandfather,  Judge  Mason, 
who  bent  under  the  weight  of  sorrows  and  debts,  —  debts 
the  paj-ment  of  which  seemed  hopeless  after  the  flight  of 
a  dishonest  agent,  who  not  only  took  with  him  all  the 
money  in  his  hands,  but  had  induced  Judge  Mason  to 
sign  acceptances,  which  had  left  the  trustful  gentle 
man  so  embarrassed  that  even  the  home  place  must  go, 
where  he  had  been  born,  and  where  his  daughter  had 
lived  with  him  during  her  short  girlhood  and  early, 
crushed  womanhood.  Stanislaus  Leszinksky  was  at  that 

1  In  1842  the  army  had  not  adopted  its  present  refined  and 
pious  method  of  conversation.  I  much  fear  me  that,  in  those  old 
days,  it  swore  as  terribly  as  did  the  army  in  Flanders.  —  EDITOR. 


CAMP  AND   GARRISON.  13 

time  in  the  second  year  of  his  stay  at  "West  Point.  The 
boy's  first  impulse  had  been  to  resign  and  seek  some  new 
and  more  rapid  wa}'  of  advance  to  fortune.  But  a  Wash 
ington  banker,  who  was  the  heaviest  creditor  as  well  as  the 
personal  friend  of  Judge  Mason,  dissuaded  him.  Large- 
hearted  and  generous,  with  a  quick,  clear  insight  into  the 
characters  and  capabilities  of  men,  Mr.  Corcoran  ad 
vised  his  young  friend  to  stay  in  the  army,  where  all  his 
natural  likings  and  tastes  held  him,  and  to  accept  from 
the  banker,  as  a  loan,  enough  to  clear  the  name  and  the 
home  of  his  grandfather ;  and  in  the  years  to  come  to 
liberate  himself  from  this  engagement  b}-  strict  and  close 
economy.  Mr.  Corcoran  knew  the  character  of  Stanis 
laus  Leszinksky ;  knew  the  resolution,  the  honesty,  the 
fidelity  that  must  now  be  tried  by  the  constant  burning 
of  petty  things  :  but  he  was  sure  the  gold  was  pure  and 
the  fire  refining. 

The  bo}*  accepted  more  willingly  because  he  remem 
bered  another  source  of  assistance  which  Mr.  Corcoran 
had  forgotten,  a  gift  sent  by  a  royal  relative,  through 
General  Lafayette,  to  the  Virginian  Leszinksky,1  at  the 
time  of  the  marquis's  last  visit  to  America,  —  a  minia 
ture  portrait  of  King  Stanislaus,  set  in  superb  brilliants, 
which  his  father  had  given  to  his  mother  as  a  wedding 
gift,  and  which  she  had  kept  through  many  needs  for 
her  boy. 

During  Stanislaus  Leszinksky's  short  leave  of  absence 
at  that  time,  he  had  done  much  to  lighten  the  weight  of 
his  grandfather's  anxiety,  and  to  establish  himself  in  the 
respect  and  regard  of  all  his  grandfather's  creditors. 
The  diamonds  had  been  unset  and  disposed  of,  and  the 
miniature  itself  was  left  with  the  banker  to  be  kept,  if 
Stanislaus  Leszinksky  should  die  suddenly,  in  lieu  of  a 
small  balance  still  owing. 

So  the  brilliants  that  were  worth  a  knight's  ransom 
did  knightly  sen-ice  :  they  saved  the  pledged  honor  of 
a  Virginian  gentleman,  and  bought  from  that  terrible 
task-master,  Debt,  the  freedom  of  the  last  of  the  Masons 
of  Mount  Hope. 

1  See  Appendix. 


14  BABY  RUE. 


From  that  time  until  he  graduated  the  young  cadet 
had  to  learn  the  hardest  of  all  lessons  to  the  young,  — 
not  only  a  resolute  refusal  of  self,  but  something  more 
difficult,  the  resolute  refusal  of  a  self  represented  by 
others.  The  liberal  hand  was  empty,  —  so  empty  that 
the  generous  heart  often  ached  sorely  from  its  inability 
to  give.  Added  to  this,  the  boy  was  proud  and  reticent : 
so,°like  many  another  noble  soul,  he  was  misjudged  and 
undervalued.  Youth  is  a  stern  lawgiver,  rarely  excusing 
and  never  extenuating ;  it  takes  into  account  only  facts 
that  are  patent  to  sight :  causes  are  too  remote  for  its 
surface  philosophy.  Every  old  officer  who  remembers 
West  Point  will  remember  how  irksome  was  any  little 
economy  he  was  compelled  to  practise  there,  and  how 
impossible  it  would  have  seemed  to  him  then,  to  live  on 
the  actually  necessary.  This  Stanislaus  Leszinksky 
did ;  consequently,  those  of  his  companions  who  knew 
him  slightly  judged  slightingly. 

The  professors  knew  better,  but  their  attentions  and 
well-intended  comments  on  Leszinksky 's  prudence  were, 
to  the  unthinking  young  prodigals  whom  want  had  not 
disciplined,  additional  proofs  of  the  parsimonious  mean 
ness  with  which  they  had  credited  him. 

Only  a  pure  heart  —  onl}*  a  calm,  brave,  patient  soul  — 
could  have  lived  through  this  false  estimate,  and  gathered- 
no  bitterness.  It  seems  like  telling  the  story  of  our 
hero  in  one  sentence  to  sa}T  he  lived  it  down,  and  per 
fected  and  completed  his  own  character  in  the  living. 
We  lay  stress  upon  completed.  Character  is  more  fre 
quently  perfected  than  completed ;  perfection  may  be 
reached  through  the  wearing  martyrdom  of  care  and 
suffering,  but  the  broad  whole  of  a  complete  character 
keeps  the  wholesome  sweetness  of  childhood's  trust  and 
faith,  the  enthusiastic  hope  and  ambition  of  youth,  the 
broader  beliefs  and  charities  of  mature  knowledge, 
shrined  on  the  innermost  altar,  where  Wisdom  waits  for 
Experience  to  light  the  torches. 

No  comrade  had  been  more  true  to  Stanislaus  Les 
zinksky  during  the  days  of  his  patient  endurance  than 
bluff,  blustering,  bullet-headed  William  Carson.  The 


CAMP  AND  GARRISON. 


boy  was  a  year  }'ounger  in  grade.  He  had  come  from  a 
plain  Western  family ;  but  the  men  of  his  race  had  been 
fighting  pioneers,  and,  though  unlettered  and  rude  in 
manner,  had  the  innate  pluck  and  manliness  which  make 
a  gallant  yeoman  the  fit  friend  and  trusty  comrade  of 
the  chivalric  and  high-born  gentleman. 

In  his  first  hazing  difficulties  at  "  the  Point,"  Carson 
fought  his  tormentors  like  a  young  Turk.  True  to  the 
inherited  instinct  of  the  old  Indian  fighter,  that  even 
then  waked  in  him,  he  disdained  complaint  or  outcry 
when  overpowered.  His  hearty  cuffs  and  heavy  kicks 
had  changed  the  fun  of  his  tormentors  to  cruel  earnest. 
Humanity  had  succumbed  to  the  animal  nature ;  the 
pained  brutes  rushed  upon  a  pre}r  now  helpless,  and 
avenged  the  victors  upon  the  vanquished. 

Leszinksk}-,  coming  in,  tried  reason ;  but  when  rea 
son  could  not  get  a  hearing,  he  tried,  with  better  effect, 
hard  knocks.  Carson  had  both  pluck  and  endurance. 
The  first  brought  him  to  his  knees  beside  his  rescuer, 
the  second  helped  him  fight  there.  It  was  two  against 
twenty,  and  one  of  them  nearly  down  ;  but  of  the  two,  one 
defended  his  insulted  young  manhood,  whilst  the  other 
bravely  championed  the  right.  So  the  two  triumphed  ;  or, 
to  speak  more  truly,  the}'  gave  their  opponents  time  and 
opportunity  to  rehumanize.  The  brute  half  in  humanity 
stopped  in  its  blind  cruelt}',  the  manly  half  began  to 
reason.  Carson,  with  twice  his  pluck  and  four  times  his 
strength,  never  could  have  morally  so  affected  them.  But 
the  physical  courage  of  his  ally  had  better  backing  than 
mere  endurance.  The  battle  flash  in  the  clear  gray  eyes 
had  in  it  a  lightning  of  scorn  that  pierced  into  and 
through  the  souls  of  his  antagonists.  The  shame  in 
their  souls  fought  for  him.  As  the  brute  nature  was 
cowed  and  silenced,  humanit}7  asserted  itself;  a  few 
dropped  out  of  the  melee  and  waited  ;  the  others  fought 
less  heartily.  One  awakened  sinner  cried,  "  Shame  !  " 
The  consciences  of  others  assented  ;  all  but  two  fell 
back.  That  was  all  they  would  do  ;  that  was  their  com 
promise  with  conscience. 

But  that  was  enough.     Ajax  on  his  knees  butted  one 


16  BABY  RUE. 


with  that  bullet-head  of  his  until  he  had  a  stomach  full 
of  arguments  for  peace  ;  whilst  the  young  demigod  who 
fought  on  the  side  of  Ajax  against  oppression  knocked 
down  the  other.  Then  human  nature  showed  still 
another  of  its  kaleidoscopic  turns.  The  vanquished 
twenty  cheered  the  two  victors,  and,  assisting  Ajax  to 
rise,  found  him  with  a  badhy  sprained  ankle.  Never 
was  cub  more  spoilt  than  that  one  was  in  the  curing ; 
but  the  spoiling  was  wholesome.  It  was  the  "little  go  " 
which  passed  him  "  Gentleman." 

So  under  the  lamps  walked  these  two  friends, — 
strangely  assorted,  it  is  true,  contrasting  in  all  quali 
ties  except  manliness :  that  was  their  plane  of  equality. 
The  fraternity  was  now  a  thing  of  habit ;  an  affection 
grown  so  strong  that  it  needed  no  expression  in  words  ; 
stronger  from  the  difference  in  their  natures.  Unlike 
the  attractive  difference  which  in  lover  and  loved  charms 
through  its  supplemental  qualit}',  this  was  an  entire 
difference  —  almost  an  antagonism  —  of  character,  har 
monized  through  an  affection  which  on  one  side  was 
blind  devotion,  and  on  the  other  a  clear-sighted  over 
looking  of  faults  that  hid  virtues. 

The  Secretary  promised  that  Carson  should  soon  join 
his  friend.  At  the  station  they  parted ;  a  pressure  of 
the  hand,  and  then  a  last  word  from  Leszinksk}-. 
"  Carson,  I  think  you  know  how  much  I  care  for  Miss 
Cartaret.  You  do  not  know  that  two  weeks  ago  her 
guardian,  Judge  Cartaret,  refused  me  permission  to  ad 
dress  her,  —  hinted  that  her  fortune  attracted.  As  he  is 
a  gentleman,  I  presume  he  told  her  both  request  and 
refusal ;  since  then  I  am  silenced  if  she  is  silent.  So  I 
asked  to  be  exchanged.  I  cannot  stay  in  Washington. 
You  see  now  why  I  go." 

"Yes.  God  bless  you!  Good-by.  I  will  follow  }'ou 
as  soon  as  they  let  me." 

"  Good-by.     Tell  her  I  have  gone." 

"Yes." 

And  then,  as  his  friend  whirled  out  of  sight  in  the  dark 
night,  the  faithful  fellow  turned  with  a  sad  heart  to  the 
ball,  which  was  now  only  a  painful  thing,  for  he  too 


CAMP  AND  GARRISON.  I; 

loved  Margaret  Cartaret.  But  not  an  instant  did  he 
hesitate.  His  own  love  must  be  put  away  :  his  friend's 
cause,  his  friend's  trust,  were  everything.  Later  in  the 
night  he  led  Margaret  into  the  conservatory. 

"  You  are  sad,  Mr.  Carson." 

"  Yes,  Miss  Cartaret;  for  my  friend  Leszinksky  has 
to-night  left  for  frontier  service." 

"Left?"  And  the  stately  head  bent,  and  the  hand 
on  his  arm  trembled. 

"  Did  you  know  that  your  guardian  had  refused  him 
permission  to  address  you  ?  " 

"Certainly  not.  I  did  not  know  he  had  asked 
it." 

"  I  am  very  glad  you  did  not  send  him  to  his 
death." 

"I?  —  send  him  to  his  death!  "  And  the  fair  face 
grew  pale  and  the  trembling  increased. 

"  It  would  be  that  if  you  refused  him.  I  know  Les 
zinksky  well.  He  loves  you  as  few  men  could  love,  — 
deeply,  tenderly,  —and  with  him  love  lives  forever.  He 
may  live  away  from  you,  silenced  by  your  guardian's 
taunt,  but  he  will  never  forget  }'ou,  Miss  Cartaret ;  and 
that  love  being  hopeless  would  send  him  careless  of  life 
into  every  battle." 

"  My  guardian's  taunt?"  and  the  blue  eyes  blazed  at 
.Carson. 

"  Yes  ;  that  being  penniless  he  sought  your  fortune. 
But  do  you  know  how  and  why  he  is  penniless,  Miss 
Cartaret?" 

"  No  ;  tell  me." 

"  To  save  his  grandfather's  name  from  a  shade  of  dis 
honor  ;  to  save  the  home  where  his  mother  was  born. 
Ask  Mr.  Corcoran.  He  will  tell  }'ou  the  story.  And 
this  is  the  man  your  guardian  suspects,  —  dishonors  with 
his  suspicion." 

"  I  am  not  responsible  for  my  guardian.  Will  you 
apologize  to  your  friend  for  me  ?  Say  if  I  had  known 
this  he  should  not  have  left  without  seeing  me  —  if — 
if  my  invitation  would  have  brought  him." 


18  BABY  RUE. 


Off  in  the  rapidlj'  growing  distance  the  lover  was 
saying  to  his  heart:  "  If  I  could  only  have  said  fare 
well  —  could  only  have  asked  her  to  wait  for  what  the 
3rears  might  bring !  But  now  she  must  hear  of  me 
through  deeds.  God  give  me  the  chance,  I  pray !  Let 
glory  woo  her  for  me." 


CAMP  AND  GARRISON.  19 


CHAPTER  II. 

THE  green  on  the  trees  looks  far  greener  than  ever, 
And  the  linnets  are  singing,  "  True  lovers  don't  sever." 

THOMAS  DAVIS. 

EARLY  in  the  spring  of  1842  Margaret  Cartaret, 
having  left  "  The  Cedars,"  below  Richmond, 
three  days  before  with  onlj-  her  maid  as  travelling  com 
panion,  reached  Ivvnchburg,  where  she  was  to  join 
Major  Anderson  and  his  daughter  on  their  way  to  Mem 
phis.  Two  weeks  earlier,  on  her  coming  of  age,  she  had 
written  Stanislaus  Leszinksky  that  she  was  willing  to 
accept  his  fortune  if  he  declined  hers,  adding,  "You 
will  find  me  in  Memphis  by  the  first  of  May,  at  the 
house  of  my  father's  old  friend,  Major  Nathaniel  Ander 
son.  If  you  cannot  have  leave  to  come  to  Memphis,  I 
am  sure  my  friends  will  accompany  me  to  Fort  Smith." 

It  was  in  the  time  of  the  old  stage-coaches,  when  the 
small  discomforts  of  travel  only  gave  additional  zest  to 
the  charm  of  mountain  and  valley.  At  three  o'clock  in 
the  morning  after  Miss  Cartaret' s  arrival  in  L^nchburg, 
our  party  took  the  places  Major  Anderson  had  secured 
for  them,  amidst  the  confusion  attendant  on  such  an 
early  start. 

The  lanterns  were  burning  brightly,  the  horses  stamp 
ing  with  impatience,  —  for  at  that  day  the  horses  of 
the  "  Mountain  Line,"  as  it  was  called,  were  nearly  all 
thoroughbred  ;  dogs  were  }'elping  ;  negroes  calling  and 
laughing  in  the  delight  of  parting  gratuities ;  whilst, 
above  all,  the  throned  coachman  in  a  triumph  of  skill 
held  the  lines  in  one  hand,  and  in  the  other  the  musical 
horn  that  woke  the  early  echoes,  telling  sleepy  burghers 


20  BABY  RUE. 

of  his  departure.  When  the  lights  faded  he  placed  his 
tin  treasure  in  a  rough  leathern  case,  until  a  ten  miles 
run  brought  them  near  the  post  stables.  Then  again  the 
mellow  notes  woke  the  country,  and  the  sleep}-  passen 
gers  stretched  themselves  in  the  glow  of  the  newly 
risen  sun. 

Post-boys  and  manager  were  alert  at  every  stable,  and 
in  five  minutes  with  a  fresh  team  the  heavy  coach  was 
winding  up  the  rocky  steeps,  or  rushing  in  a  rattling 
gallop  into  the  mists  of  the  valleys. 

Twenty  miles  to  breakfast  was  the  usual  run ;  and 
steaming  coffee,  hot  waffles,  and  juicy  venison  had  a 
relish  unknown  to  the  modern  victims  of  railway  travel. 

A  few  days'  rest  at  the  White  and  Blue  Sulphur 
Springs,  a  short  stay  at  the  Falls  of  the  Kanawha, 
another  at  the  foot  of  the  Sweet  Spring  Mountain, 
which  rocky  road  had  shaken  Major  Anderson's  gout 
into  a  fit  of  live  fury,  brought  our  travellers  to  the  Ohio 
River  at  Guyandotte. 

Until  their  arrival  at  the  Hawk's  Nest  the  major's 
patience  had  been  sorely  tried  by  his  forced  attendance, 
in  their  mountain  climbs,  upon  his  daughter  and  Miss 
Cartaret.  The}'  needs  must  walk  when  the  slow-going 
coach  crept  up  the  mountain  heights.  They  were  aided 
and  abetted  by  hints  from  the  driver  of  cross  paths 
and  short  cuts.  The  mountain  laurel  and  honeysuckles 
were  in  their  early  flower,  and  there  were  armsful  of 
trailing  vines  and  masses  of  bloom  to  carry,  until  their 
collected  treasures  made  a  veritable  lady's  bower  of  the 
lumbering  coach. 

At  the  Hawk's  Nest  a  pitying  Providence  sent  the 
major  help. 

As  our  party  descended  from  the  coach,  which  waited 
while  they  walked  up  the  wood  path  that  led  to  this  most 
picturesque  of  mountain  views,  they  saw  immediately 
before  them  on  the  roadside  one  of  those  crazy  vehicles 
kept  as  hackney  carriages  in  the  mountain  towns.  This 
particular  one  had  lived  through  decades.  In  its  better 
days  it  had  been  the  pride  and  glory  of  some  old  coun 
try  family.  Hung  high  over  dingy  yellow  wheels,  with 


CAMP  AND   GARRISON.  2 1 

its  silk-lined  Morocco  curtains  in  fringed  tatters,  the 
door  open,  and  a  succession  of  rust}'  steps  unfolded, 
it  told  a  tale  of  change  and  fallen  fortune.  The  horses 
were  sorry  jades  ;  and  the  driver,  with  his  scant  locks 
of  white  wool,  fitly  matched  the  antiquated  equipage 
He  was  busy  cutting  withes  of  saplings  and  twisting 
them  into  a  rope  to  tie  up  a  broken  spring.  As  Miss 
Cartaret  passed  him,  touched  by  his  look  of  patient  en 
deavor  as  he  whittled  away  with  an  old  broken  knife, 
she  took  her  own  from  her  pocket  and  gave  him. 

"  Thankee,  marm"  ;  and  he  doffed  his  torn  hat  and 
bowed  low  before  her.  "  I 's  desprit  obleeged.  I 's  most 
dazed  wid  dese  breaks.  We 's  done  broke  down  fo' 
times  comin'  from  Mount  Hope.  De  folks  I  brung  ar'  up 
dar  at  de  Ness,  an'  I 's  try  in'  to  patch  her  once  mo'  so 
she  '11  hold  out  to  de  tavern  down  dar  at  de  foot  ob  de 
mountain  whar  dey  's  gwine  to  take  de  stage." 

"  Very  well,  keep  the  knife  ;  it  may  help  you  home." 

"  Lord  bless  }*ou,  mistis  !  You  don't  mean  to  guv  it 
to  me  ?  " 

"  Yes,  keep  it,  and  my  maid  will  give  you  a  snack : 
that's  hungry  work  for  an  old  man." 

"  De  Lord  lub  you,  mistis  —  an'  he  do  ;  but  I  ain't  no 
kashun  for  vittles.  De  white  folks  dat's  wid  me  is  got 
plenty,  an'  .de}'  's  might}*  good  'bout  dat,  but  you  see  I 's 
done  broke  all  de  knife  de  gemmun  had.  Dis  one  is  a 
beauty  for  sho !  'Fears  like  I  never  will  want  to  stop 
thankin'  yer." 

"  Oh,  you  are  welcome.  I  hope  it  will  bring  you 
luck." 

"  Dunno  'bout  dat.  Cum  to  dat  I  mus'  guv  you  sum- 
fin  fur  it — jis  fur  luck,  you  know.  Mus'  do  it,  mum." 

She  stopped,  amused,  whilst  he  searched  his  pockets, 
drawing  out  a  motley  collection  of  fragments. 

"  Heah,  marm  ;  heah  is  de  very  gif  I  orter  to  guv  you, 
mistis.  It  is  a  haht  my  young  marster  cut  las'  time  he 
was  home.  It's  mighty  pretty  fur  a  cherry-stone." 

"  Thank  you  ;  it  is  beautifully  cut.     Good-by." 

Having  relieved  a  superstition  and  lifted  a  sense  of 
obligation,  Margaret  Cartaret  hastened  to  join  the  party 


22  BABY  RUE. 


who  waited.  Their  path  ended  in  a  clearing  on  one  side 
of  the  mountain  summit,  where  a  bold  cliff  jutted  out 
until  it  hung  over  the  river  which  wound  around  the  base 
of  the  mountain,  like  a  silver  thread  hundreds  of  feet 
below.  In  the  opposite  mountain,  facing  the  cliffs,  were 
clefts  in  the  chain,  now  opening  into  valleys,  then  nar 
rowing  into  ravines,  through  which  two  other  streams 
came  to  join  the  one  beneath. 

On  the  edge  of  the  overhanging  rock  called  the 
"Hawk's  Nest"  grew  a  scrub-pine,  and  as  the  party 
gained  the  clearing,  Margaret  Cartaret,  who  was  in  ad 
vance,  caught  by  the  weird  attraction  of  the  dizzy 
height,  fascinated  by  the  subtle  charm  that  waits  the 
unwary  upon  the  threshold  of  the  Infinite,  walked  to  the 
very  edge,  catching  unconsciously  at  the  frail  support 
of  the  waving  boughs  of  the  little  pine,  as  she  bent  over 
to  look  down.  As  the  party  came  into  the  clearing  they 
saw  her  danger. 

Miss  Anderson  was  about  to  cry  out,  when  a  hand 
was  gently  placed  over  her  mouth,  and  a  voice  said  in  a 
low,  warning  tone  :  — 

"Hush!  One  cry,  and  yon  send  her  to  a  horrible 
death." 

Leaving  her  trembling  with  the  repression  of  feeling, 
the  stranger  was  almost  instantly  behind  Miss  Cartaret. 
Catching  her  firmly  in  his  arms  he  drew  her  out  of  dan 
ger  ;  and  then  onl}'  did  she  realize  her  near  risk  of  de 
struction. 

From  that  moment,  Major  Anderson's  troubles  grew 
lighter.  William  Carson,  who,  with  his  sister  Mary, 
was  the  temporary  owner  of  the  antique  vehicle  which 
had  brought  them  thus  far  on  their  way  West,  after  a 
week's  visit  at  Judge  Mason's,  gladly  took  on  his 
sturdy  shoulders  the  load  of  care  that  was  inflaming 
the  major's  gout  and  embittering  a  naturally  sweet 
temper. 

Uncle  Abram  turned  back  without  having  to  go  to 
"de  foot  ob  de  mountain."  Seeing  Miss  Cartaret  pale 
and  trembling,  the  grateful  old  man  asked  Carson  the 
cause.  Hearing  of  her  risk  on  the  Hawk's  Nest,  — 


CAMP  AND  GARRISON.  23 

"  It 's  de  Lord  save  her.  I  knowed  she  was  one  o' 
his  pet  chillun.  I  seed  it  in  her  face  when  she  guv  me 
dis  knife,  an'  sho  nuf  dat  haht  dat  Marse  Stan  cut  has 
brought  her  luck  a'ready  ;  dat 's  why  you  was  privleeged 
to  cotch  her  from  'struction.  An'  now  mebby  she 's  yo' 
fortshun,  Mr.  Carson." 

"  No,  Uncle  Abram  ;  I  can  tell  you  something  better. 
She  is  your  Master  Stan's  sweetheart,  and  she  is  on 
her  way  to  Memphis  to  marry  him.  Major  Anderson 
has  just  told  me." 

"  Bless  de  Lord,  dat  I  guv  her  dat  haht !  It  save  her 
fur  Marse  Stan  sho.  Won't  you  please  tole  him  'bout  it, 
sir?" 

Carson  promised,  and  the  old  man  busied  himself 
changing  the  luggage  to  the  stage,  and  arranging  for 
his  return  alone.  When  the  coach,  with  its  two  new 
passengers  settled  into  place,  was  about  to  start,  he 
came  to  the  window  where  Margaret's  pale  face  was 
resting  against  a  cushion. 

"  I  mus'  say  good-by,  m}-  3*oung  mistis.  Mr.  Carson  's 
done  tole  me  'bout  you  an'  Marse  Stan.  You  did  n't 
know  I  b'longed  to  de  family  when  I  guv  3*011  dat  haht 
of  Marse  Stan's.  You  see  it  was  de  Lord's  doin's,  fur 
you 's  one  o'  his  angels  dat  he  sen's  sometimes  when 
de}*  's  wanted  bad,  and  he  knows,  mistis,  how  de  family 
has  suffered  sorely  since  ole  marster  was  bankrupped, 
an'  you  '11  let  us  die  eas}*,  us  ole  uns,  fur  3*ou  '11  bring 
Marse  Stan  home  to  us  to  de  New  Geruzlum.  I  '11  tell 
ole  marster.  I  knows  it,  fur  I  sees  it  in  yo'  sweet  face, 
mistis.  Good-by." 


24  BABY  RUE. 


CHAPTER  III. 

UP  on  the  hill  and  down  in  the  dale 
And  along  the  tree-tops  over  the  vale, 

Shining  over  and  over,  — 
Low  in  the  grass  and  high  on  the -bough, 

Shining  over  and  over. 
0  world,  have  you  ever  a  lover  ? 

And  the  hillside  heats  with  my  beating  heart, 

And  the  apple-tree  blushes  all  over, 
And  the  May-bough  touched  me  and  made  me  start, 

And  the  wind  breathes  warm,  like  a  lover. 

SIDNEY  DOBELL. 

FROM  Guyandotte  to  Cincinnati  the  trip  was  slow. 
The  Ohio  River  was  at  the  low  stage  of  water 
that  usually  precedes  the  June  rise.  The  little 
steamer  was  heavily  loaded,  and  had  to  unship  and  re- 
ship  part  of  her  freight  in  crossing  the  sand-bars,  for  the 
yellow  ridges  were  uncovered  by  the  washing  of  the 
waves  as  the  wheezing  little  "stern-wheeler"  swept 
down  the  narrow  channel. 

Major  Anderson's  gout  kept  him  in  his  state-room, 
the  only  change  possible  being  to  an  easy-chair  on  the 
guards  near  his  door.  He  had  on  the  trip  renewed  a 
lang-syne  acquaintance  with  a  Kentucky  gentleman,  an 
excellent  cribbage  player ;  and  so  in  mam-  closely-con 
tested  games  he  was  sometimes  able  for  hours  to  forget 
his  twinges  of  pain.  His  daughter  and  Miss  Cartaret 
were  thus  left  to  the  companionship  and  care  of  the 
Carsons. 

During  these  long  detentions  on  the  sand-bars  the 
obliging  captain  of  the  steamer  would  send  them  ashore 
in  the  yawl.  Landing  at  the  nearest  farmhouse,  when 
no  village  was  in  sight,  Carson  would  hire  any  convey- 


CAMP  AND  GARRISON.  2$ 

ance  to  be  had,  and  drive  down  the  river  road  through 
long  stretches  of  emerald-tinted  meadows  and  blossom 
ing  orchards  that  covered  the  slope  from  the  thickly- 
wooded  chain  of  hills  to  the  river-side. 

To  the  three  girls  these  rides,  with  their  homely  inci 
dents,  made  the  happiest  of  holidays.  There  were  farm 
house  snacks^  breakdowns  that  left  them  afoot  upon  the 
road  ;  impromptu  luncheons  on  grass}'  knolls  ;  climbs 
up  the  hillside  to  see  if  the  laggard  steamer  was  coming 
through  the  curves  of  the  beautiful  river ;  then,  as  the 
wavy  columns  of  smoke  told  of  its  liberation,  rushes 
downward,  scrambles  through  hazel  bushes,  cross-cuts 
to  catch  in  running  the  earl}-  blossoms  of  May-apple 
and  daffodil ;  cool,  shady  walks  in  lonely  paths  through 
the  tender  green  overhanging  boughs  of  swamp-willows, 
with  hands  laden  with  buds  and  trailing  vines  ;  ventures 
on  the  slippery  sands  to  points  where  the  yawl  could 
land ;  trembling  balancings  on  the  broad  blade  of  a 
stout  oar  that  bridged  the  shoal-water  line. 

For  William  Carson,  the  purveyor  of  these  pleasures, 
this  holiday  work  was  a  tough  trial  of  honesty.  Never 
in  all  his  after  life  —  in  wild  Indian  fights  and  desperate 
frontier  shifts,  or,  later,  when  facing  the  veterans  of 
Lee  as  their  solid  ranks  pressed  on  to  victory,  or  stub 
bornly  resisting  the  deadly  charge  of  the  Stonewall 
Brigade  —  was  Carson's  courage  more  severely  tested 
than  in  this  constant  attendance  upon  the  woman  soon 
to  be  his  friend's  wife,  whom  he  was  forcing  himself  to 
regard  as  a  sister.  The  man's  honesty  was  so  true,  his 
friendship  so  loyal,  that  in  the  holding  himself  to  ac 
count  he  was  a  far  more  rigid  moralist  than  a  man  of 
more  refined  sensibility,  more  subtile  sensitiveness,  could 
have  been.  There  was  for  him  no  tampering  with 
temptation,  no  self-excuses  for  concealed  love.  The 
strength  and  ruggedness  of  his  character  forced  its  very 
tendernesses  to  tear  up  by  the  root  all  that  could  offend 
his  consciousness  of  right.  It  hardly  needs  the  telling 
to  know  he  reached  the  aim  he  had  set  himself,  and 
framed  in  his  thought,  as  one  with  his  friend,  the  woman 
he  had  loved. 


26  BABY  RUE. 


Their  stops  in  the  mountains  and  their  long  deten 
tions  on  the  sand-bars  so  delayed  our  party  that  they 
arrived  in  Cincinnati  a  week  after  they  were  due  in 
Memphis.  As  the  steamer  rounded  to  at  the  landing 
in  the  early  May  morning,  a  pattering  shower,  that 
dimpled  the  river  under  broken  rifts  of  yellow  light, 
sent  the  girls  down  from  their  point  of  vantage  on  the 
hurricane-deck  to  the  shelter  of  the  guards  just  as  they 
touched  gratings  with  a  newly-arrived  steamer  from 
Louisville.  In  the  crowd  of  passengers  that  looked  at 
them  from  the  guards  of  the  down-river  boat  Margaret 
Cartaret  recognized  Stanislaus  Leszinksk}T.  A  happy 
light  came  into  her  clear  eyes,  —  a  deeper  color  to  the 
bronzed  face  of  the  young  soldier.  In  an  instant  he 
cleared  the  railing  and  was  by  her  side.  Mar}r  Carson, 
seeing  Miss  Anderson's  half-shocked,  half-frightened 
expression,  explained  hastily,  "It's  Lieutenant  Les- 
zinksky.  Come."  And  the  lovers  were  left  to  the  first 
telling  of  that  old,  old  story  whose  past  is  coeval  with 
the  world,  whose  present  is  the  sunshine  of  earth's 
heritage,  whose  future  will  last  through  the  ages  until 
Love  and  his  brother  Death  clasp  hands  to  lead  the  last 
human  soul  through  the  portals  of  the  infinite. 

In  the  glory  of  the  brightest  of  May  mornings,  Stan 
islaus  Leszinksky  and  Margaret  Cartaret  were  mar 
ried.  Never  had  there  been  seen  in  that  little  chapel  at 
Newport  a  fairer  bride  or  a  quieter  wedding.  Major 
Anderson,  his  daughter,  and  Mary  Carson,  Carson  and 
two  army  officers  on  duty  at  Cincinnati,  were  all  the 
witnesses.  The  bride's  guardian  and  nearest  relative, 
Judge  Cartaret,  —  a  cousin  of  her  father,  —  had  made 
Leszinksky's  resignation  from  the  army  and  establish 
ment  at  "The  Cedars,"  in  Virginia,  a  condition  of  his 
consent  to  the  marriage  ;  for,  although  legally  of  age, 
Margaret  had  no  control  of  her  estate  until  she  should 
be  twenty-seven,  unless  she  married  with  Judge  Carta- 
ret's  consent.  She  unhesitatingly  refused  to  make  this 
request  of  her  lover.  With  the  intuitive,  sympathetic 
knowledge  born  of  love,  she  realized  what  would  be  to 


CAMP  AND  GARRISON.  27 

him  the  humiliation  of  accepting  from  her  guardian, 
who  had  thought  her  fortune  an  attraction,  the  custo 
dianship  of  that  fortune.  She  also  knew  Leszinksky's 
devotion  to  his  profession  and  what  it  would  cost  him 
to  sacrifice,  even  for  her,  the  only  path  in  life  he  thought 
worth  following,  —  the  path  whose  modest  pleasures 
were  simple  wayside  flowers,  blossoming  in  the  light  of 
days  filled  with  duties,  and  whose  crown  of  living  would 
be  to  carry,  unstained  in  danger  and  trial,  the  honor  of 
the  name  that  had  come  to  him  through  a  line  of 
heroes. 

So  the  little  chapel  in  Newport  was  the  point  of  ex 
odus  from  which  another  pair,  recreated  in  oneness, 
were  to  lead  their  descendants  through  time  and  change 
•to  the  perfectness  of  the  Beyond. 


28  BABY  RUE. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

AND  all  fancies  yearn  to  cover 

The  hard  earth  on  which  she  passes 
With  the  thymy  scented  grasses. 

And  all  hearts  do  pray,  "  God  love  her  !  " 

ELIZABETH  BARRETT  BROWNING. 

FROM  Cincinnati  to  Cairo  the  party  of  travellers  con 
tinued  together.  At  Cairo  the}7  separated,  the 
Andersons  going  to  Memphis,  while  Carson  accom 
panied  his  sister  to  their  Western  home,  before  joining 
the  1st  Dragoons  at  Jefferson  Barracks,  to  which  place 
the  Leszinkskj-s  journeyed  alone.  From  there  Leszink- 
sky  was  ordered  to  Leavenworth,  with  a  detachment  de 
tailed  as  escort  to  emigrant  parties  crossing  the  plains. 

Headquarters  were  at  Leavenworth,  and  soon  their 
little  home  had  all  the  comforts  then  possible  in  a  fron 
tier  station.  Many  an  adornment,  before  unknown  there, 
proved  Stanislaus  Leszinksky's  care  and  thoughtfulness 
for  his  young  wife.  The  rough  walls  of  her  little  sitting- 
room  were  covered  with  beautifully-preserved  ferns,  and 
garlanded  with  autumn  leaves  ;  from  the  mat^y-branched 
horns  of  elk  and  deer  hung  rustic  baskets  of  bark,  filled 
with  trailing  vines  and  delicate  prairie  flowers  ;  here 
and  there  a  superb  butterfly  or  rare  bird  proved  the 
taste  of  the  collector  and  the  skill  of  the  taxidermist. 
The  black  bear,  the  grizzly,  the  white  wolf,  and  the 
panther  furnished  rugs,  which  covered  the  rough  oak 
floor. 

Even'thing  that  mountain  and  forest  and  plain  could 
furnish  had  been  sought  to  decorate  Margaret's  bower. 
The  soldier  on  the  scout  was  also  a  lover  on  a  foray, 
seeking  every  treasure  that  Nature  hides  in  wild-wood 


CAMP  AND   GARRISON.  29 

and  dell, — starry-eyed  "flowers  that  looked  up  from  the 
gold-broidered  carpet  of  emerald-green  in  some  narrow 
stretch  of  river  meadow ;  delicate  harebells  from  the 
rock}-  heights  ;  the  blue  larkspur  and  bright-scarlet  gil- 
lia  of  mountain  passes  ;  modest  daisies,  hidden  beneath 
the  flaunting  splendor  of  sunflower  and  golden-rod ; 
wild,  climbing  roses  of  the  ravines ;  swamp  honey 
suckle  and  tin}'  violets  that  covered  the  gnarled,  up- 
springing  roots  of  sentinel  oaks,  dwarfed  by  the  never- 
ceasing  battle  on  the  forest's  edge  with  raging  storms 
and  fierce  winds  from  the  plains. 

At  first  the  soldiers  watched  curiously  the  ways  of  the 
silent  3'onng  officer,  as  he  lifted  tenderly  from  their  hid 
den  nooks  blossom  and  flower,  or  caught  in  the  meshes 
of  his  butterfly-net  some  glittering  marvel  of  rich  color. 
Soon  the  watching  grew  s}-mpathetic.  There  is  alwa}-s 
infection  in  companionship  with  a  lover  of  Nature : 
first,  the  curious,  half-felt  eagerness  of  pursuit ;  then 
the  triumph  and  physical  delight  of  success :  through 
these,  more  slowl}-,  comes  to  the  inner  conscious 
ness  an  almost  indefinable  sense  of  the  beautiful, 
widening  and  strengthening  with  use,  until  the  great 
heart  of  the  All-Mother  sends  a  new  thrill  into  the 
pulses,  a  new  meaning  into  all  tSings.  So  she  teaches 
us  that  — 

"To  know 

That  which  before  us  lies  in  daily  life, 

Is  the  prime  wisdom." 

Whenever  it  was  possible,  Margaret  Leszinksky  ac 
companied  her  husband.  The  heiress  of  "  The  Cedars," 
the  belle  of  Washington,  the  beauty  of  Richmond  was 
soon  a  hardy  and  fearless  frontierswoman.  Come  of  a 
race  of  fox-hunting,  hard-riding  Virginia  planters,  the 
transition  was  not  unnatural. 

The  accomplished  and  graceful  horsewoman  seemed, 
the  fit  and  proper  central  figure  of  a  cavahy  squadron. 
Splendid  health,  and  the  perfect  fearlessness  which 
scarcely  realized  danger  until  it  is  past,  made  the 
longest  and  most  venturesome  expedition  not  only  pos 
sible  but  pleasant  to  her.  To  no  young  subaltern,  in 


30  BABY  RUE. 


all  the  freshness  of  a  shoulder-strap,  was  the  call  "  to 
boot  and  saddle  "  more  welcome. 

Alwaj's  ready  for  the  start,  finding  in  ever}7  discom^ 
fort  or  mischance  of  the  rude  encampment  some  cause 
for  merry  laughter ;  never  failing  in  sweet  and  womanly 
sympathy  for  the  suffering  of  any  ill  or  wounded 
trooper ;  alwa3"s  recognizing  with  a  bright  smile  or 
clear,  low-spoken  thanks  the  homeliest  wayside  cour- 
tes}^ ;  with  the  tact  which  discerns  when  speech  would 
be  less  welcome,  less  difficult  of  response,  than  a  glance 
or  smile  of  acceptance,  —  Margaret  was  the  idol  of  the 
regiment.  From  the  old  officer,  whose  gray  mustache 
and  thread-bare  uniform  were  more  carefully  brushed 
because  of  her  presence ;  to  the  youngest  subaltern, 
whose  gaudiest  trappings  were  recklesslj'  exposed  to 
sun  and  rain  when  she  was  of  the  party  ;  to  the  rough 
est  soldier,  who  had  been  driven  to  the  shelter  of  the 
national  flag  by  some  outbreak  against  the  law  or  his 
neighbor,  — all  were  her  worshippers. 

Had  Mrs.  Leszinksky  been  less  a  lady,  the  charm 
had  been  less :  its  completeness  was  in  the  perfect 
grace  and  womanly  sweetness  of  the  thoroughbred 
gentlewoman.  The  rejining  effect  of  her  presence  was 
alwa}~s  perceptible.  The  officers  were  more  consider 
ate  and  patient ;  the  men,  not  only  respectful  and 
obedient,  but  attentive  and  alert.  The  entire  War  De 
partment  could  not  have  perfected  the  discipline  as  did 
her  presence  in  camp.  The  Board  of  Missions  could 
never  have  brought  about  such  devout  ways.  The  hard 
est-swearing  adjutant  in  the  army  rose  at  daybreak, 
when  they  must  march  on  Sunday,  to  read  the  morning 
service,  because  it  was  her  wish.  Officers  and  men 
came  together,  —  the  more  unlettered  in  church  service 
in  the  background,  looking  with  mixed  feelings  of  awe 
and  envy  at  the  lucky  "  scholards,"  who  stood  forward 
to  join  in  the  responses. 

The  October  after  Margaret  joined  (everything  in  the 
regiment  now  dated  from  that  epoch),  on  their  return 
from  escorting  a  party  of  Oregon  emigrants  to  the 
Mountains,  when  near  Fort  Laramie,  she  was  ill, 


CAMP  AND   GARRISON.  31 

i 

for  the  first  time  in  her  life.  The  decimation  of  a  com 
pany  could  not  have  so  clouded  every  face.  After  two 
days'  rest  they  started  for  Laramie,  with  the  beloved  in 
valid  on  a  bed  of  buffalo-robes,  in  an  ambulance.  The 
sandy  shore  of  the  South  Platte  made  a  heavy  but 
smooth  road.  The  united  strength  of  as  man}-  men  as 
could  crowd  around  the  wheels  lifted  and  pushed  when 
ever  the  road  roughened.  In  two  days,  they  made  the 
forty  miles  to  the  post.  Then  the  surgeon  declared  a 
longer  trip  impossible  for  her:  she  must  winter  in 
Laramie. 

The  commanding  officer  of  the  expedition  instantly 
decided  that,  for  "  the  needs  of  the  government,  and  the 
better  protection  of  the  trading-post,"  a  detachment 
must  be  stationed  there.  Leszinksky  was  left  in  com 
mand  ;  also  the  surgeon  was  left  for  "  the  good  of  the 
service,  as  there  might  be  wounded  to  attend," — al 
though  the  tribes  were  then  peaceful,  and  they  had  not 
found  a  "  hostile"  on  the  plains. 

The  morning  the  now  low-spirited  command  left  for 
Leavenworth,  they  filed  by  Leszinksky's  quarters. 
Out  on  the  rude  porch  of  the  Western  cabin  sat  Marga 
ret,  pale,  but  trying  to  smile  a  hopeful  farewell.  For 
the  first  mile  or  two  of  the  march,  caps  were  drawn  low 
over  shaded  eyes  ;  officers  and  men  seemed  struck  with 
an  infectious  influenza,  until  the  swearing  adjutant  turned 
on  the  troopers,  and  rolled  out  such  a  volley  of  weight}' 
oaths,  between  such  suspicious  falling  inflections,  that  a 
ripple  of  half-hysterical  laughter  ran  along  the  column, 
as  they  closed  up,  and  took  on  the  ordinary  manner  of 
godless  cavalrymen,  —  leaving  their  religion  with  their 
saint  at  Laramie. 

It  was  a  happy,  quiet,  domestic  winter  for  the  Leszink- 
skys.  The  little  cabin  of  three  rooms  was  decorated 
with  every  possible  frontier  ornamentation.  Not  a 
trader  or  trapper  but  brought  his  offering  ;  and  after  the 
first  few  weeks,  the  little  porch  constantly  echoed  the 
soft  patter  of  beaded  moccasins.  Indian  mothers  came 
with  ailing  children,  and  Margaret  and  her  aide,  the  doc 
tor,  nursed  and  fed  and  physicked  them  in  concert ;  so 


32  BABY  RUE. 


in  the  fulness  of  her  life  the  influence  of  this  woman  went 
out  to  the  needy.  In  the  crowning  glory  of  her  woman 
hood,  approaching  maternity,  the  character  of  Margaret 
took  on  its  finishing  charm,  —  the  motherhood  that  gath 
ers  and  shelters  God's  afflicted  little  ones. 

There  was  less  whiskey  sold  at  the  post  that  winter 
than  usual,  and  the  profit  of  the  traders  fell  off;  but  no 
one  grumbled.  The  influence  which  radiated  from  that 
log  hut  in  the  wilderness  led  men  to  think  of  treasure  in 
heaven.  When  the  springtime  came,  and  a  baby  was 
born,  rough  men  stood  about  with  full  eyes  ;  and  Leszink- 
sky's  hand  was  clasped  in  close  grasps,  as  husky  voices 
wished  mother  and  child  well.  For  the  one  day  of  her 
agony,  the  mother's  life  was  in  danger.  Shops  were 
closed ;  traders,  trappers  in  from  the  mountains,  Indian 
women  with  pappooses  on  their  backs,  sat  about,  on  and 
near  the  little  porch,  expectant  and  sorro\vful,  in  the 
sunlight  of  the  bright  Easter  morning,  to  wait  for  news  ; 
and  when  the  hope  of  life  came,  and  the  wail  of  a 
little  child  was  heard,  walked  awa}-  silent  and  thankful. 
Men,  who  for  years  had  forgotten  God,  and  what  he  had 
set  them  here  to  do,  thought  of  their  mothers,  and  of 
the  great  mystery  of  travail  in  childbirth. 

The  little  wooden  chapel  of  the  Jesuit  Mission  had 
strange  visitors  that  day :  wild-looking  men,  clad  in 
skins,  came  to  listen  once  .more  to  the  half-forgotten 
strains  that  told  of  the  passion  and  the  glory,  the  cruel 
death  and  triumphant  resurrection,  of  the  Child  born 
eighteen  hundred  years  ago  in  Judaea. 


CAMP  AND   GARRISON.  33 


CHAPTER   V. 

OH,  he  indeed  is  happy,  who  still  feels, 
And  cherishes  within  himself,  the  hope 
To  lift  himself  above  a  sea  of  errors  ! 

GOETHE. 

THE  first  of  December,  in  '43,  found  the  Leszinkskys 
established  in  the  officers'  quarters  at  Fort  Gibson. 

The  day  had  been  calm  and  cold  and  still,  and  in  the 
fading  twilight  the  stars  twinkled  and  silvered  in  the 
frost}-  air.  By  the  window  sat  Margaret,  waiting,  with 
her  baby  in  her  arms.  Through  the  open  door  of  the 
dining-room  the  light  shone  from  the  lamp  on  the  tea- 
table,  which  also  waited.  Back  and  forward  passed  a 
handsome,  stalwart  young  negro  man,  arranging  the 
details  of  the  service,  changing  and  replacing  article 
after  article  noisily,  as  if  to  attract  attention,  with  an 
occasional  look  at  the  waiting  figure  by  the  window. 
All  to  no  purpose  ;  for  his  mistress  seemed  unconscious 
of  sight  or  sound  within  doors.  Even  the  bab}'  had 
fallen  into  the  same  mood,  and  with  solemn  eyes  peered 
into  the  gloaming.  A  piece  of  light-wood  thrust  into 
the  bright  coals,  and  the  rattle  of  a  falling  shovel,  broke 
the  spell.  The  baby  turned  to  coo  her  delight  at  the 
red  flame  as  a  firm,  quick  step  sounded  on  the  stoop. 
Another  moment  and  the  door  opened  as  Margaret 
reached  it,  and  wife  and  child  were  in  the  arms  of 
Stanislaus  Leszinksky.  tThen  the  much-tried  servant 
came  forward. 

"Howd'y',  Marse  Stan?"  and  the  black  hand  met 
the  white  one  in  a  friendly  clasp. 

"I's  mighty  glad  you 's  heah,  sir.  Miss  Margret 
was  gettin'  oneasy,  an'  little  Miss  Rue  looked  like  she 
knowed  it." 


34  BABY  RUE. 


"  How  did  you  know  I  was  '  oneasy,'  Oscar?  " 

"  Lord,  mum,  you  never  looked  round  when  I  rattled 
things.  I  made  a  heap  o'  noise  —  sounded  like  I  broke 
most  everything  on  the  table." 

Leszinksky  smiled  at  his  wife,  and  loosened  the 
clutch  of  baby  fingers  from  his  mustache  as  he  asked : 
"  Were  you  anxious,  Margai'et?  " 

"  Yes.    You  said  you  would  be  here  to-day,  and  "  — 

"  I  have  spoiled  you  by  my  punctuality.  I  always 
arrive  before  you  have  had  time  to  wait.  l"  should  have 
done  so  to-day  but  for  an  unexpected  meeting  with 
Carson  at  the  upper  ford.  They  have  had  a  hard  time 
of  it  on  the  march  from  Bent's,  and  I  stayed  to  help  him 
over  with  his  wagons  and  sick  people." 

"  I  am  so  glad.     Is  he  not  coming  to  us? " 

"  Yes  ;  he  has  gone  to  headquarters  to  report,  but  he 
will  be  here  to  supper  in  a  few  minutes.  I  hope  }TOU 
have  enough  for  two  hungry  men,  Oscar  ?  " 

"  Thar 's  prairie  chicken  an'  briled  ham,  an'  two  kinds 
o'  bread,  an'  waffles." 

"  That  is  enough ;  the  ham  and  waffles  alone  would 
do  for  a  soldier  just  from  the  plains." 

"  How  far  did  you  go,  Stan?  " 

"Out  to  Castalar's  ranch;  we  staj-ed  there  night 
before  last.  I  was  so  near  I  had  to  go  and.  thank  them 
for  their  kindness  to  3'ou  and  the  little  one.  And  now 
the  debt  is  increased.  Madame  lias  sent  you  a  fresh 
cow.  "We  brought  the  calf  in  the  ambulance,  so  had  no 
difficulty." 

"That  is  a  welcome  gift, — more  precious  to  baby 
than  silver  or  gold.  But  here  comes  our  guest." 

Together  husband  and  wife  hastened  to  greet  Carson 
in  the  hall-way,  as  Oscar  opened  the  outer  door. 

Margaret  and  Carson  had  never  met  since  the  week 
after  her  marriage.  The  slight  but  stateh"  girl  had  now 
the  noble  proportions  and  full  roundness  of  mature 
womanhood.  For  one  beat  Carson's  pulse  gave  a  great 
throb  of  half  pain,  half  delight,  and  then  stilled  with  a 
strange,  new  feeling  in  his  heart,  as  Margaret  gently 
placed  her  child  in  his  arms,  saying :  "  Stan  and  1  wish 


CAMP  AND  GARRISON.  35 

you  to  be  her  godfather.  We  have  waited  for  your 
return.  You  were  a  brother  to  him  in  the  old  West 
Point  days.  You  are  a  brother  to  me :  that  night  at 
the  Corcorans',  when  you  told  me  what  gave  me  to  your 
comrade,  made  me  your  sister." 

She  stopped  a  moment,  then,  seeing  that  the  servant 
was  gone,  and  Leszinksky  standing  silent,  with  his  face 
turned  from  the  firelight,  she  continued :  "If  she  should 
lose  us,  we  give  this  child  to  your  care ;  }"ou  will  be  her 
guardian.  Neither  of  us  has  any  near  relatives.  She 
would  be  entirely  dependent  on  your  protection,  —  a 
helpless  little  woman  with  none  but  you.  My  brother, 
you  have  but  one  fault,  but  one  weakness.  Will  you 
give  it  up  for  the  sake  of  a  little  child  whose  vows  to 
God  you  must  make  ?  " 

"  Yes  !  "  with  a  half-choking  sob  in  his  voice.  Evi 
dently  trying  to  master  himself,  he  added  brokenly : 
"  I  know  perfectl}'  what  }-ou  mean.  I  disgraced  my 
self  on  the  boat  from  Cincinnati  to  Cairo.  I  was 
drunk." 

"  Oh,  but  it  was  after  Stan  was  with  me.  When  I  was 
dependent  on  your  care  —  " 

"  Certainty,  I  was  not  blackguard  enough  to  drink 
then,  or  to  come  near  you  ladies  when  I  was  drinking ; 
but  I  was  sure  you.  could  not  fail  to  know.  But  I 
promise  you  now,  holding  in  my  arms  this  baby,  who 
will  always  be  more  precious  to  me  than  anything  on 
earth  except  }-our  respect,  your  trust,  that  I  will  never 
so  disgrace  nryself  again." 

As  Carson  stooped  to  kiss  the  child,  she  looked  up  at 
him  with  that  wonderful,  far-away  look  of  baby  e}*es 
which  seems  entangled  with  lost  memories. 

Leszinksky  threw  his  arm  over  his  friend's  shoulder, 
saying:  "Thank  God!  Carson,  I  am  selfishly  glad. 
Now  I  can  meet  the  chances  of  a  soldier's  life  without 
fear.  Wife  and  child  will  be  safe  in  your  care,  if  the 
odds  go  against  me." 

"  I  think  }-ou  can  trust  me,  Stan.  I  was  true  to  you 
when  it  was  harder  than  this.  I  loved  Miss  Cartaret 
from  the  first  moment  I  ever  saw  her,  and  Margaret 


36  BABY  RUE. 


Leszinksky,  or  any  one  she  cared  for,  could  have  my 
life  for  the  asking.  Now  you  know  it  all." 

He  placed  the  child  in  Margaret's  arms,  and  faced 
Leszinksk}'.  For  an  instant  the  two  3*oung  men  re 
garded  each  other  steadily,  then  Leszinksky  extended 
both  hands,  which  Carson  grasped  and  wrung  hard. 
Margaret  had  gone  out  of  the  room. 

"  I  was  stupidly  blind,  Carson.     I  did  not  know." 

"  I  did  not  intend  you  should.  I  knew  it  was  hope 
less,  even  had  she  never  known  you." 

"I  do  not  know  why  you  should  think  so.  You  are 
the  manliest  fellow  I  ever  knew.  Any  woman  miglit 
treasure,  might  be  proud  of  your  affection." 

"  Hush,  Stan !  You  always  saw  the  best  side  of  me. 
There  is  another  for  the  blackguards  I  find  in  the  devil's 
thoroughfares." 

Christmas  came,  and  baby  Rucheil  was  made  a  Chris 
tian.  The  first  woman-child  born  to  the  Leszinksk}-s 
since  Marie  of  France  bore  the  name  of  the  Mahometan 
wife  of  old  King  Stanislaus,  —  the  name  inscribed  in  the 
wedding  ring  worn  by  every  bride  who  had  come  into 
the  line  since  the  time  of  Janet  Macdonald.  It  was  of 
Margaret's  choosing. 

"The  child,"  she  said,  "is  all  Leszinksky,  and 
Rucheil  was  the  name  of  the  woman  whose  marriage 
united  the  three  dynasties  of  the  '  lilies  of  Kabilovitsch.' 
The  name  itself  is  an  inheritance,  and  the  first  daughter 
of  the  house  should  bear  it." 

So  the  Jewish  Angel  of  the  Air  and  the  Winds  was 
the  tutelary  saint  of  the  little  maiden  born  on  the 
plains. 

The  pale,  delicate,  worn  wife  of  Paul  Castalar,  the 
ranchero,  proved  the  true  catholicitj7  sometimes  found  in 
the  Roman  Church  by  acceding  to  Margaret's  request 
to  be  the  child's  godmother.  Carson,  we  know,  was  her 
godfather. 

A  pagan  ancestress,  a  Jewish  name,  a  Catholic  god 
mother,  held  at  the  font  in  the  arms  of  a  hard-swearing, 
young  cavalryman,  —  what  will  become  of  her?  Ah! 


CAMP  AND  GARRISON,  37 

she  is  a  "  Sunday's  child,"  christened  on  Christmas. 
Will  not  the  special  blessing  of  the  old  proverb  follow 
her? 

The  spotless  bud  of  an  Easter  morning,  consecrated 
on  the  day  of  the  Nativity,  through  change  and  suffering, 
through  the  martyrdom  of  affections  and  hopes  and 
ambitions,  though  broken  from  the  parent  stem  and 
soiled  with  sin,  the  blessed  dew  of  a  fructifying  repen 
tance  shall  fall  upon  the  bleeding  flower,  until  the  up 
lifted  chalice  of  the  lily  holds  its  purified  sweetness  in 
the  soft  dawn  of  the  Sun  of  Righteousness. 


38  BABY  RUE. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

Now  will  I  show  myself  to  have 
More  of  the  serpent  than  the  dove. 

MARLOWE. 

THAT  winter  the  regiment  had  a  new  experience, 
—  a  fierce  outbreak  of  temper  on  the  part  of  its 
saint. 

Leszinksky  had  gone  with  the  colonel  to  settle  some 
dispute  between  two  friendly  Indian  tribes. 

Captain  Hartley,  left  in  command  of  the  garrison,  was 
disliked  by  the  officers  and  detested  by  the  men.  A 
coxcomb  and  a  martinet,  selfish,  cold,  and  haughty, 
reasons  for  dislike  were  as  plenty  as  blackberries. 

Because  of  this  unpopularit}1-  Leszinksky  had  been 
kind  and  polite,  Margaret  impressively  hospitable.  At 
Leavenworth  the  high-spirited  young  subalterns,  who 
could  not  well  brook  his  insolent  assumption,  would 
turn  away  from  the  house  if  they  saw  him  there,  or  if 
there  when  he  came  would  leave  on  some  subtle  pretext 
that  deceived  no  one.  Carson,  who  now  met  him  for 
the  first  time,  instinctively  hated  the  man.  Whether  it 
was  the  side  of  his  character  that  led  him  to  ','  the  devil's 
thoroughfares  "  that  judged  Hartley  is  a  question  for  the 
psj'chologist.  At  any  rate,  he  judged  more  correctly 
than  Leszinksky.  Margaret's  judgment  was  valueless 
in  the  case  ;  for  we  who  know  her  know  she  would  overrule 
any  estimate  which  declared  against  the  friendless.  So 
it  happened  that  the  man  in  the  garrison  the  least  fit  for 
the  companionship  of  a  pure  woman  was  a  constant 
visitor  to  the  Leszinkskys. 

Only  one  member  of  the  family  stood  proof  against 


CAMP  AND  GARRISON.  39 

an}*  approach"  to  friendliness.  Baby  Rue  sturdily  set 
herself  against  Hartley.  No  blandishment,  no  bribe, 
could  win  her,  although  her  nurse,  Margaret's  pretty 
quadroon  maid,  never  wearied  in  effort  to  soften  her 
obstinate  antagonism. 

Carson  was  boyish  enough  in  his  dislike  to  encourage 
the  child's  resistance  to  the  captain's  touch,  her  rejec 
tion  of  his  offerings.  When  Margaret  remonstrated, 
he  was  prudentby  silent.  To  Leszinksky  he  said : 
"Children,  dogs,  and  roughs  are  the  best  judges  of 
character.  I  am  glad  Rue  backs  my  opinion  with  her 
dislike.  Her  mother  never  will  see  the  bad  in  an}-  one,  — 
she  is  too  thoroughly  good  to  find  it ;  but  Rue  is  an 
outcrop  of  the  old  Leszinksky  shoot.  She  knows  a 
blackguard,  and,  thank  God,  she  scorns  him.  If  she 
did  n't,  with  that  devil's  temper  and  obstinate  will  of 
her's,  —  if  she  grew  friendly  with  Hartley,  —  I  should 
be  in  fear  and  dread  of  her  future.  She  is  not  the  sort 
that  can  touch  pitch  and  not  be  defiled.  Young  as  she 
is,  j-ou  can  only  rule  her  through  love.  Damn  it,  why 
do  you  wish  her  to  like  a  cold-blooded  scoundrel? " 

"  Carson,  you  are  excited,  and  are  letting  your  preju 
dice  warp  your  better  nature.  You  know  nothing 
against  Hartley,  except  the  general  dislike  to  his  man 
ner." 

"  His  manner  is  the  best  of  him,  cool  and  C3'nicalty 
insolent  as  it  is.  The  man  has  n't  a  noble  or  generous 
impulse  in  his  composition.  He  is  only  honest  in  the 
law's  sense.  I  would  trust  him  with  my  pocket-book, 
if  he  knew  I  had  counted  the  contents  ;  but  I  would  n't 
trust  the  heart  of  a  woman  or  the  honor  of  a  man  in  his 
long,  slim,  white  hands.  He's  a  low  brute.  I  could 
tell  you,  but  you  would  only  think  it  a  prejudiced  sus 
picion  —  " 

Margaret's  coming  hushed  the  discussion,  and  Les 
zinksky  left  for  the  Indian  country  without  learning 
more  from  Carson.  That  was  early  in  February. 

Three  days  after  Leszinksky's  departure  a  soldier 
came  to  Carson's  quarters  at  daybreak  to  say  Mrs. 
Leszinksky  wished  him  to  come  to  her  as  soon  as  pos- 


40  BABY  RUE. 


sible.  In  ten  minutes  more  Carson  was  in  the  little 
sitting-room,  where  he  found  onh-  Baby  Rue,  sitting  in 
Oscar's  lap,  with  the  half-frightened  look  that  a  baby's 
face  sometimes  wears  in  presence  of  a  grief  it  can 
not  understand.  She  was  rubbing  her  little  rose-leaf  of 
a  hand  over  the  black  cheeks,  down  which  great  tears 
were  rolling.  Carson  had  knocked  impatiently,  and 
then  entered  unnoticed. 

"  What  is  the  matter,  Oscar?"  and  the  stout  soldier's 
voice  trembled. 

"  It 's  —  it 's  Cap'in  Hartley,  an'  because  he  's  a  white 
man  an'  I 's  a  black  one  I  can't  kill  him  in  a  far'  fight." 

Carson's  heart  stood  still  as  he  caught  at  a  chair  and 
gasped,  "  Your  mistress,  — where  —  " 

"•  She 's  out  3Tonder  in  the  cabin  wid  Lucy  an'  —  an' 
his  chile." 

"What  child?" 

"  HIS'N  !  That 's  why  Lucy  married  me  las'  fall.  I 
was  a  fool  not  to  suspec'  somethin'  when  she  change  her 
mind,  after  tellin'  me  so  long  she  never  was  agoin'  to 
many  anj'bocly.  Lord  !  Lord  !  Marse  Carson,  when  I 
seed  that  chile  this  mornin',  an'  Miss  Marg'ret  a-ciyin' 
over  it,  I  wanted  to  kill  Lucy  an'  it  an'  him.  I  'd  a-done 
some  desprit  harm  I  know,  fur  I  pushed  Miss  Marg'ret 
away,  an'  hurt  her  when  I  cotched  her  arm  ;  but  she 
would  n't  let  go  o'  me.  She  jis  cotch  the  chile  in  her 
bres'  an'  held  it,  an'  stood  between  me  an'  Lucy  an' 
kep'  say  in',  '  Oscar !  Oscar ! ' ' 

"  You  did  n't  strike  your  mistress?" 

"  No,  Marse  Carson,  I  could  n't  a-done  that  never, — 
not  even  then,  —  an'  she  so  good  an'  pitiful ;  but  I 
must  a-hurt  her  ami  when  I  tried  to  take  the  chile  ;  an' 
now  I 's  mos'  glad  I  did  :  for  if  I  had  n't  a-hurted  her, 
I  'd  a-killed  somebody  sho,  —  that  brung  rue  out  o'  the 
fit  like;  an'  she  said,  so  steady  an'  sorrowful  that  I 
could  n't  help  but  mind  her,  '  Rue  is  crying ;  go  keep 
her  until  I  come.'  An'  poor  little  Miss  Rue  was  cryin' 
hard  until  she  see  me  so  struck  an'  poorly,  an'  she  jis 
stop  fur  pity  o'  me."  And  the  poor  fellow  hid  his  grief- 
stained  face  in  the  child's  frock. 


CAMP  AND  GARRISON.  41 

Carson  looked  at  the  baby,  who  put  out  her  hands  to 
him,  her  lip  trembling  with  its  pretty  quiver  of  hurt 
feeling.  He  bent  over  Oscar,  saying,  "  Give  Rue  to 
me  ;  she  is  frightened." 

As  he  took  the  child,  Oscar  stood  up  and  crossed  his 
arms  over  his  breast,  evidently  trying  hard  to  repress 
the  gasping  sobs  that  would  come. 

"  How  do  you  know  it  was  Hartley?" 

"  Thar  was  Mrs.  O'Dowd,  an'  old  Betty  the  cook, 
with  her  all  night.  Miss  Marg'ret  sot  up,  an'  I  was  in 
heah  with  Miss  Rue  while  her  mother  stayed  out  in  the 
cabin.  The  doctor  had  been  heah,  an'  said  Lucy  was 
doin'  well,  an'  he  'd  come  agin  early  in  the  mornin'. 
Miss  Rue  had  waked  an'  cried,  an'  her  mother  had 
come  to  her.  I  was  makin'  up  the  fire  in  the  dinin'- 
room,  fur  it  was  near  mornin',  an'  the  doctor  would  be 
back  to  breakfas'.  When  the  ole  woman  came  to  Miss 
Marg'ret's  room,  I  wanted  to  heah  'bout  Lucy ;  so  I 
kep'  still,  an'  I  heerd  her  tell  Miss  Marg'ret,  '  De  chile 
is  born,  an'  it 's  a  white  chile.'  I  dunno  what  come 
over  me  till  Miss  Marg'ret  said,  '  Lucy  is  nearly  white.' 
She  laid  Miss  Rue  in  the  cradle  an'  went  out  to  the 
cabin.  I  was  in  a  maze  like  when  I  follered  her.  I 
stopped  a  minute  by  the  kitchen-door,  an'  the  women 
was  talkin'  together.  One  o'  them  said,  '  It 's  Captain 
Hartley's  chile ' ;  an'  I  went  on  quick  to  the  cabin.  I 
heerd  Miss  Marg'ret  say,  '  Lucy,  I  can  forgive  you ; 
but  Oscar'  —  an'  they  seed  me,  an'  Lucy  screamed,  an* 
Miss  Marg'ret  jis  turn  white  ;  but  she  stood  before  them 
two.  I  tole  you  'bout  all  the  res'.  But,  Marse  Car 
son,  somehow  I  know  I  '11  kill  that  man  yet." 

The  door  opened  and  Margaret  came  in.  She  spoke 
first  to  Oscar,  — 

"  Stay  here." 

Then  taking  her  child  from  Carson,  — 

"  I  sent  for  you  to  ask  you  to  go  with  Oscar  to  Van 
Buren,  and  send  him  from  there  to  Memphis.  He  must 
leave  here  at  once.  Stan  will  be  gone  three  weeks,  and 
I  dare  not  let  him  stay." 

The  negro  broke  in  excitedly:    "Tore  God,  Miss 


42  BABY  RUE. 

Marg'ret,  I  won't  do  any  one  heah  any  harm !  Not 
Lucy,  or  even  that  chile.  Don't  sell  me,  mistis  !  " 

"I  never  thought  of  it,  Oscar.  Do  you  think  your 
Marse  Stan  could  sell  his  foster-mother's  child  ?  " 

"But  I  hurtyow,  Miss  Marg'ret.  'Twill  be  mighty 
hard  fur  Marse  Stan  to  get  over  that." 

"  He  will  know,  as  I  do,  that  you  never  intended  harm 
to  me.  But  you  must  go  to  Memphis,  Oscar,  for  your 
own  sake,  for  my  sake.  I  should  be  constantl}*  anxious 
if  3*ou  were  here.  You  would  not  give  me  trouble  if 
you  could  help  it;  but  I  cannot  be  sure  of  your 
patience." 

"  No,  Miss  Marg'ret,  you  can't.  If  I  see  that  man, 
I 's  feared  I  '11  kill  him." " 

The  light  of  hate  in  the  bloodshot  eyes  gave  emphasis 
to  the  fear.  Carson  said  only,  — 

"  I  will  be  ready  to  go  in  an  hour.  Oscar,  will  you 
promise  to  go  with  me  quietly  ?  I  do  not  want  to  tell 
any  one  or  take  any  one  with  me.'* 

"  Yes,  sir ;  I'll  promise  to  be  read}*  an'  wait  fur  you 
quietly,  an'  I  '11  go  peaceably,  'cept  the  Lord  puts  him 
in  my  hands.  If  he  comes  out  'fore  we  gets  off,  an'  I 
see  him,  I  ain't  ans'erable.  I  '11  kill  him  or  he  '11  kill 
me." 

Margaret,  putting  down  the  child,  followed  Carson  to 
the  outer  door,  asking,  "  Can  3*011  take  him  alone?  Had 
3*ou  not  better  have  a  guard  ?  He  has  the  strength  of 
two  ordinary  men,  and  to-night  he  is  mad  with  the 
sting  of  his  injury." 

Carson  looked  into  the  naming  blue  eyes,  and  felt  his 
nerves  tingle  and  his  pulses  thrill:  "  I  do  not  need 
a  guard  for  Oscar  more  than  for  nrvself.  If  I  meet 
that  scoundrel  I  think  Oscar's  chance  at  him  will  be 
small.  He  has  outraged  Leszinksk}*^  trust  and  3~our 
hospitalit}7.  He  shall  settle  the  account." 

The  angry  flash  was  now  at  Carson.  "  My  husband 
can  care  for  his  cause  and  mine.  I  sent  for  a  friend  to 
aid  me  in  a  difficulty.  I  did  not  think  3*ou  rated  me 
so  lightly  that  you  would  add  fresh  fuel  to  garrison- 
gossip." 


CAMP  AND  GARRISON.  43 

"I  beg  your  pardon.  You  are  right.  You  are 
always  right.  I  will  not  take  a  guard,  but  I  will  take 
Oscar  to  Van  Buren,  and  there. shall  be  no  trouble 
about  it.  I  shall  be  here  with  an  extra  horse  for  him 
in  half  an  hour." 

And  before  she  could  speak  he  was  gone.  In  the 
little  sitting-room  she  found  Oscar  walking  back  and 
forward  with  Rue  in  his  arms. 

' '  Is  she  not  asleep  ?  " 

"  Yes,  'um  ;  but  I 's  goin'  away  from  her,  an'  I  '11  miss 
her  sore.  I's  loved  her  an'  carried  her  'bout,  an' 
thought  how  my  chile  would  play  with  her  an'  grow  up 
with  her  —  like  Marse  Stan  an'  me.  An'  now  I 's  got 
nothin'  but  her,  an'  I 's  got  to  leave  her.  An'  to-night 
she  was  sorry  for  me,  Miss  Marg'ret.  Miss  Marg'ret, 
when  a  man  makes  a  heaven  like  this  was,  a  hell, 
ought  n't  he  to  be  killed?  " 

"  God  will  judge  him." 

"But  then  God's  so  slow  'bout  it.  O  Miss  Rue, 
little  Miss  Rue,  don't  forget  poor  Oscar !  " 

He  knelt  down  at  her  mother's  feet  and  gave  up  the 
baby. 

"Don't  cry,  Miss  Marg'ret.  I'll  go  now  all  right. 
I 's  goin'  to  tell  Lucy  good-by.  I  won't  hurt  her  —  nor 
it :  I  promise  you.  You  kin  trus'  me,  mistis.  You  do, 
—  don't  you  ?  " 

"Yes,  Oscar.  Come  back  at  once.  Get  the  things 
you  will  want  and  come  here." 

In  a  short  time  he  returned.  Then  came  Carson, 
refusing  to  wait  for  breakfast :  they  could  get  it  at  a 
farm  ten  miles  down  the  river.  And  in  the  rosy  light 
coming  through  the  window  Margaret  looked  in  the  face 
of  the  first  grief  that  had  touched  her  hearthstone. 

The  blow  had  struck  her  pride  and  her  affection. 
The  young  wife  had  a  shrinking  sense  of  being  soiled 
with  the  shame  that  had  befallen  her  household.  Be 
sides  this,  she  loved  Lucy.  The  memory  of  their  first 
meeting  melted  her  to  pity.  Only  a  week  from  the  day 
her  own  mother  was  buried,  sitting  beside  her  father  in 
the  cemetery  of  Hollywood,  silent  through  sympathy 


44  BABY  RUE, 


with  the  strong  man  broken  \>\  grief,  she  was  roused 
from  the  dead  ache  of  her  own  sorrow  by  the  plaintive 
wail  of  a  child  standing  alone  in  the  tangled  under 
growth  of  a  remote  and  neglected  corner  of  the  grounds. 
She  put  her  hand  in  her  father's,  saying,  "  Papa,  over 
there  is  a  little  girl  all  alone.  She  is  crying  so !  "We 
must  go  to  her." 

Near  the  child  they  found  a  woman  lying  on  the 
sward,  her  head  resting  on  a  newly-made  grave.  When 
questioned  by  Colonel  Cartaret  the  child  only  moaned, 
"  Mamm}T,  mammy !  " 

He  raised  the  woman's  head  and  found  her  quite 
dead,  the  soft  brown  cheek  and  tangled  curling  hair 
lying  in  a  little  pool  of  blood.  The  dark  stains  on  the 
pale  ashen  lips  told  the  story  of  the  broken  heart  and 
spent  life. 

That  night  Colonel  Cartaret  learned  the  history  of 
the  dead  mother.  The  next  morning  he  bought  the 
child  from  the  creditors  of  the  estate  of  Larry  Hoyt,  the 
gambler.  The  woman  had  been  his  slave,  the  child 
was  his  daughter.  A  rough,  a  gambler,  a  murderer, 
shot  down  on  the  street  by  the  Ibrother  of  the  man  he  had 
killed,  society  gained  by  his  death.  Society  gained ; 
but  the  poor  woman  to  whom  he  seemed  a  god  in  his 
kindly,  rugged  strength  and  grand  perfectness  of  tower 
ing  height  and  muscle,  lost  everything.  He  had  bought 
her  from  a  man  he  had  seen  whipping  her  brutally.  He 
had  held  his  fiery  temper  under  control  until  the  bargain 
was  made  and  the  bill  of  sale,  which  it  took  his  last 
dollar  to  pay,  was  receipted.  Then  he  thrashed  her 
late  owner  to  a  jelly.  From  that  moment  she  never 
had  cause  to  shed  a  tear,  until  the  death  which  demand 
ed  so  many  that  they  came  in  the  swift  rush  of  the 
scarlet  tide  on  which  her  soul  floated  away  in  search  of 
the  lost. 

Old  Betty,  coming  in  to  ask  for  orders,  changed  the 
current  of  Margaret's  thought,  which  had  stra}'ed  into 
the  past.  Oscar's  departure  made  the  little,  every-day 
things  of  life  more  difficult,  and  Margaret  (remember 
she  was  only  a  woman :  the  regiment,  not  the  church, 


CAMP  AND   GARRISON.  45 

had  canonized  her)  added  these  petty  irritations  to  her 
account  with  Hartley.  The  household  affairs  arranged, 
directions  given  as  to  Lucy's  comfort,  she  added  posi 
tive  orders  to  old  Betty  to  be  silent  about  the  child  and 
Oscar's  departure.  She  also  demanded  from  Mary 
O'Dowd  a  promise  of  discretion  in  speech.  Then  the 
doctor  came,  but  he  was  Margaret's  ancient  ally  and 
could  be  trusted. 

Four  days  later  Carson  returned.  He  had  seen  Oscar 
leave  on  the  steamer  for  Memphis.  Again  Margaret 
asked  his  absence.  Would  he  please  go  to  Leszinksky 
and  tell  him  all,  and,  if  it  was  not  too  much  out  of  the 
way,  would  he  go  to  Castalar's  and  ask  Madame  and 
Stephanie  to  come  and  stay  —  at  least  until  Stan's 
return  ? 

Carson  was  rather  vexed  at  all  these  trivial  errands, 
when  he  would  so  much  rather  have  sta}-ed  at  the  gar 
rison  and  found  some  pretext  to  have  it  out  with 
Hartley.  His  grumbling  was  to  himself;  his  ready 
acquiescence  only  was  visible.  He  asked,  through  his 
captain,  leave  of  absence,  which  Hartley  was  only  too 
glad  to  give  him  ;  for  somehow  he  mixed  Carson,  in  his 
thought,  with  the  late  repulse^  he  had  met  with  at 
Margaret's  door.  In  place  of  the  smiling  and  polite 
Oscar,  old  Betty  had  answered  his  knock.  To  his 
inquiry  for  her  mistress,  she  answered  civilly,  but  with 
just  a  shade  of  defiant  asperity  in  her  manner :  — 

"  Miss  Marg'ret  is  not  berry  well,  and  can't  see  no 
company  jis  yet." 

Carson  disposed  of,  Margaret  was  ready  for  her  next 
move.  She  sent  for  the  chaplain  and  Captain  Moore. 
Now,  the  chaplain  was  very  well  if  these  troubled 
waters  were  to  be  stilled,  but  "fighting  Ben  Moore" 
seemed  the  last  man  alive  to  choose  for  peacemaker, 
with  such  a  beautiful  opportunity  to  take  on  his  broad 
shoulders  some  one's  quarrel. 

The  guests  were  shown  into  the  dining-room,  where 
they  found  the  doctor.  Old  Betty  was  on  guard  in  the 
sitting-room,  to  keep  out  chance  callers.  Margaret  did 
not  put  in  an  appearance  until  her  ally  had  opened  the 


46  BABY  RUE. 


council  and  stated  the  case.  After  a  time  she  entered, 
looking  very  quiet  and  stately  ;  but  there  was  a  red  flush 
in  her  cheeks,  a  steely  gleam  in  the  blue,  eyes,  an  electric 
quiver  in  the  voice,  that  half  frightened  the  parson, 
though  it  pleased  Captain  Ben  hugely. 

"Gentlemen,  I  wish  to  have  this — this  difficult 
matter  settled,  as  far  as  it  ever  can  be,  before  nry  hus 
band  returns.  The  principal  offender  is  his  superior 
officer ;  the  woman "  —  here  her  voice  quivered  and 
broke  for  an  instant —  "  the  woman  belongs  to  me.  So 
it  will  be  better  to  settle  this  vexing  question  in  his 
absence." 

"  But,  my  dear,"  broke  in  good  old  Mr.  Page,  "  do 
3*ou  not  think  it  would  be  better  —  more  proper,  more 
delicate  —  to  leave  such  a  —  such  a  scandal  as  still  as 
possible  ?  I  am  sure  your  husband  would  think  it  best. 
He  would  see  at  once  how  disagreeable,  how  unpleasant, 
it  would  be  to  make  any  disturbance  about  what  cer 
tainly  is  a  very  improper  affair." 

"  Can  you,  Mr.  Page,  — a  good  man  like  3*011,  a  hus 
band,  a  father,  —  call  this  stain  of  a  woman's  soul,  the 
grief  and  pain  of  her  husband,  only  an  *  improper 
affair'?  Why,  you  gave  them  the  sacrament  of  mar 
riage  !" 

"•  That's  all  very  true,  very  right,  from  }rour  stand 
point  ;  but  3'ou  must  see,  my  dear  Mrs.  Leszinksky, 
that  circumstances  modify  guilt.  With  negroes  it  does 
not  do  to  expect  too  high  a  standard  of  morals, 
too—" 

"  From  3"our  standpoint,  Mr.  Page,  has  God  given 
one  gospel  to  the  white  man  and  another  to  the  negro  ? 
How  dare  3-ou  urge  his  commandments  upon  them  if  all 
sanctity  is  taken  away  from  their  relations  in  life  ?  " 

"I  do  not  think,  my  dear  madam,  you  exactly 
understand.  I  am  very  pained  at  this  —  at  this  sinful 
affair ;  but  I  do  not  think  3Tour  husband  would  like 
3'ou  to  do  an3'thing  that  would  bring  upon  you  the  cen 
sure  of  the  censorious  or  the  ridicule  of  the  light- 
minded." 

"  If,  as  a  minister  of  God,  that  is  your  judgment, 


CAMP  AND  GARRISON.  47 

Mr.  Page,  then  I  must  appeal  to  another  standard. 
Captain  Moore,  I  ask  you,  as  a  gentleman  and  a  soldier, 
what  you  think  would  be  my  husband's  feeling  and 
expression  ?  " 

"  I  think  Leszinksky  will  feel  like  holding  Hartley  to 
account  for  betraying  his  hospitality,  and  insulting  his 
family  with  his  low  intrigue.  I  think  Mr.  Page  is  right 
about  the  moral  accountability  of  niggers ;  but  Hartley 
has  certainly  failed  in  respect  to  you,  —  he  has  acted  in 
an  ungentlemanly  and  unofficer-like  manner.  It  will 
afford  me  much  pleasure  to  tell  him  just  what  I  think  of 
his  conduct.  I  will  take  it  as  a  great  favor  —  a  most 
flattering  proof  of  your  confidence  in  m}^  discretion  — 
if  you  will  permit  me,  in  Leszinksky's  absence,  to  settle 
this  matter  with  Hartley."  • 

"  That  is  just  what  I  am  about  to  do." 

"  Thank  }-ou,  my  dear  Mrs.  Leszinksky.  I  will  go  at 
once."  And_the  bold  dragoon  started  up  in  a  perfect 
flutter  of  delight. 

"  No;  not  just  jet,  Captain.  I  have  not  given  3*011 
instructions." 

' '  Instructions  ?  I  do  not  need  any.  Wiry,  my  dear 
madam,  it  is  the  simplest  thing  in  the  world.  I  will 
just  give  him  the  facts  —  and  my  opinion.  Of  course  I 
shall  put  that  rather  stronger  than  I  can  word  it  to  a 
lady.  After,  I  will  leave  him  to  take  the  initiative  in 
—  in  the  settlement." 

"  You  mistake,  Captain  Moore.  I  do  not  wish  \ou 
to  have  a  duel  with  Captain  Hartley :  that  would  touch 
my  husband's  honor.  It  is  because  I  think  this  man 
unworthy  to  cross  swords  with  a  gentleman  that  I  wish 
you  to  act  prudently  in  the  matter  before  my  husband's 
return.  I  trust  3-011  to  be  discreet  and  wise.  I  wish  to 
give  Captain  Hartley  no  opportunity  to  defend  his 
conduct.  I  will  accept  your  intervention  if  A-OU  give  me 
your  word  of  honor  to  do  and  say  only  what  I  could  do 
or  say  were  it  possible  for  me  to  speak  to  the  —  to 
Captain  Hartley." 

"  My  dear  madam,  the  conditions  are  rather  hard.  I 
would  much  prefer  going  to  him  prepared  to  act  as 


48  BABY  RUE. 


occasion  might  demand ;  but  if  you  make  me  }*our 
ambassador,  and  require  me  to  keep  within  the  strict 
line  of  instructions,  I  promise  you  I  will  not  dot  an  i  or 
cross  a  t  without  your  permission." 

"  Thanks.  I  wish  you  to  deliver  this  note  to  Captain 
Hartley,  and  bring  me  an  answer.  If  he  asks  any 
question,  makes  any  comment,  you  will  then  say  to  him 
that  you  have  promised  to  enter  into  no  discussion,  —  to 
do  nothing  but  give  the  note  and  bring  the  answer. 
Now  please  read  the  note  aloud." 

He  read :  — 

"CAPTAIN  HARTLEY, — You  have  a  little  daughter 
at  my  quarters,  the  responsibility  of  whose  bringing 
up  —  knowing  her  parentage  —  I  do  not  choose  to 
take.  She  is  too  young  to  separate  from  her  mother, 
even  were  I  regardless  of  the  tie  of  mother  and  child. 
The  child  is  yours,  the  mother  was  mine.  I  will  sell 
her  to  you  at  any  price  you  may  name.  You  are 
from  a  free  State,  and  can  find  a  home  there  for 
your  child  (who  would  else  be  a  slave)  and  its  mother. 
The  bill  of  sale  includes  mother  and  child,  that  there 
may  be  no  difficuhv^  in  their  manumission. 

"MARGARET  LESZINKSKY." 

The  three  gentlemen  regarded  each  other  when  the 
reading  was  finished.  Then  Mr.  Page  cleared  his 
throat  nervously,  and  began  :  — 

"  My  dear  Mrs.  Leszinksky,  you  are  too  young,  too 
inexperienced,  to  see  what  a  scandal  this  will  cause  if 
Captain  Hartley  accepts  ;  and  if  he  refuses  it  would  be 
no  better.  As  a  Christian  —  you  have  not  thought  of  it 
from  a  religious  standpoint.  Why,  you  actually  separate 
the  woman  from  her  husband  to  sell  her  to  —  to  her 
partner  in  sin." 

"  Damn  him !  Only  a  piece  of  goods  he  has  dam 
aged,"  muttered  Captain  Ben,  in  an  aside  to  the 
doctor. 

The  doctor  hushed  him  with  a  gesture  that  caused 
him  to  turn.  Our  sweet  saint  was  trying  hard  to 


CAMP  AND  GARRISON.  49 

master  her  temper ;  but  the  old  Adam  had  got  the 
better  of  the  new  dispensation.  When  she  did  reply  to 
Mr.  Page  the  voice  was  low  and  clear,  but  the  face  was 
the  face  of  an  avenging  angel. 

"  I  think,  Mr.  Page,  you  and  our  Judge  up  there  "  — 
and  the  slender  white  hand  was  raised  as  if  in  invoca 
tion— "would  differ  as  to  who  is  her  husband.  In 
His  ej'es  it  is  not  the  honest  black  man,  whose  affection 
was  made  a  cloak  to  hide  her  seducer.  The  man  who 
tempted  and  betrayed  Lucy  persuaded  her  into  this 
wrong  she  has  done  Oscar.  He  trusted  to  Oscar's 
loving  patience,  and,  like  you,  thought  a  false  morality, 
a  cowardly  regard  for  conventionalities,  would  keep  us 
silent.  Now  that  I  have  been  forced  to  send  away 
Oscar,  who  is  honest  and  true  and  lo}*al,  shall  this 
man's  child  and  mistress  find  shelter  here?  " 

"  No,  certainly  not:  but  it  would  cause  less  talk  — 
it  would  be  better  to  send  her  to  New  Orleans  and  sell 
her  there." 

Then  the  storm  burst.  ' '  The  Cartarets  never  were 
negro  traders,  neither  are  the  Leszinkskys.  My  father 
bought  the  girl  to  give  her  the  shelter  of  his  home. 
She  was  brought  up  with  me.  I  despair  of  making  you 
understand  me,  gentlemen,  if  you  cannot  see  the  fitness, 
the  absolute  necessity,  of  this  offer  to  the  father  of 
Lucy's  child." 

She  turned  to  leave  the  room  when  Captain  Ben 
exclaimed,  "  Please  stay,  Mrs.  Leszinksky  !  The  church 
and  the  army  differ  in  judgment.  The  church  is  con 
servative,  and  fears  scandal ;  the  army  is  radical,  and- 
would  stamp  it  out.  Now,  3'ou  and  the  doctor  — 
for  I  see  he  is  your  all}-  —  have  found  a  more  Chris 
tian  course  than  the  church,  a  more  courageous  way 
than  that  of  the  code,  —  a  way  of  settlement  that  is 
neither  cowardly  nor  brutal.  I  am  not  generally  a  man 
of  peace  ;  but  I  am  a  convert  to  your  idea.  I  will  take 
your  note  and  bring  the  answer  at  once." 

And  the  clinking  of  the  dragoon's  spurs  was  lost  in 
the  distance. 

Mary  O'Dowd  came  to  the  door  for  Margaret.  In  a 
4 


50  BAB Y  RUE. 


twenty-minutes'  discussion  the  doctor  convinced  fearful 
but  good  little  Mr.  Page  that  Margaret's  cutting  of  the 
Gordian  knot  was  just  what  the  parson  had  always 
intended  to  advise,  only  in  the  saint's  excited  con 
dition  he  had  not  been  able  to  make  his  meaning 
clear. 

Captain  Moore's  embassy  was  less  embarrassing  and 
more  immediately  successful  than  he  had  anticipated. 
Captain  Hartley  could  guess  from  the  stiff,  constrained 
manner  of  the  ordinarily  frank,  gay  soldier  the  judg 
ment  of  the  regiment.  Brave  old  Ben's  face  was  a 
barometer.  Hartley  read  the  signs,  the  bad-weather 
gauge  was  past,  they  pointed  to  a  cj'clone. 

Though  stung  by  the  cool  contempt  of  Margaret's 
note,  Hartley  gladly  accepted  the  least  troublesome  way 
out  of  what  he  felt  was  a  dangerous  as  well  as  a  contemp 
tible  position.  Mary  O'Dowd  had  leaked.  The  very 
night  before  Captain  Moore's  visit  Hartley's  Leporello 
spent  a  bottle  of  bad  whiske}1  on  Mike  O'Dowd  in  the 
detective  service.  Through  two  intense  Irish  imagina 
tions  the  story  had  gained  size  and  color.  Oscar's  out 
break  was  magnified  into  a  murderous  assault  upon 
Lucy,  her  child,  and  his  mistress ;  wounds  and  bruises 
to  her  defenders,  Mrs.  O'Dowd  and  old  Betty ;  and  a 
desperate  fight  with  Carson.  To  that  was  added  a 
lugubrious  picture  of  Oscar's  departure  for  the  traders' 
block  in  New  Orleans,  fitted  with  handcuffs  of  the  val 
orous  Mike's  clasping. 

The  only  question  Captain  Hartley  hazarded  to  Mrs. 
Leszinksky's  ambassador  was  as  to  the  monej"  value  of 
"  the  lot "  offered  him.  Mindful  of  his  i-and-£  promise, 
Captain  Ben's  reply  was  a  masterpiece. 

"  I  have  no  authority  to  discuss  terms.  I  am  not 
prepared  to  make  suggestions.  I  am  only  the  bearer  of 
Mrs.  Leszinksky's  cartel.  I  don't  know  the  price  of 
niggers.  I  never  looked  in  the  girl's  mouth  ;  and  the 
young  one,  I  take  it,  has  no  teeth." 

Hartley  laughed.  At  which  Captain  Ben  turned  red 
as  a  turkey-cock,  puckered  his  bland  face  in  an  effort  to 
frown,  with  his  right  hand  pulled  at  his  heavy  drooping 


CAMP  AND  GARRISON.  51 

mustache,  whilst  the  left  sought  his  sword-hilt.  Hart 
ley's  laugh  was  hastily  choked.  Asking  Captain  Moore 
to  wait  a  few  minutes,  he  said  he  would  return  with  the 
money  and  settle  this  at  once. 

He  returned  with  a  roll  of  bank-notes,  wrote  a  line  or 
two,  and  gave  roll  and  billet  to  Moore,  who  received 
them  without  a  word,  gave  a  stiff  salute,  and  was  soon 
in  Margaret's  council-chamber,  where  the  doctor  and 
the  parson  waited.  Mr.  Page  had  made  his  peace  with 
Margaret.  At  her  request,  he  counted  the  money.  It 
was  two  thousand  dollars. 

"It  is  the  full  value,"  observed  the  doctor.  Mr. 
Page  held  it  toward  Margaret. 

"  No ;  I  could  never  even  touch  that  money.  I  wish 
3'ou  to  keep  it  and  invest  it  for  Lucy.  She  will  need 
it.  Now,  sir,  it  is  your  duty  to  see  to  it  that  this  man 
sends  her  North  and  makes  some  provision  for  the 
child." 

The  doctor  suggested,  "  You  have  not  read  his 
note." 

It  was :  — 

"  MRS.  LESZIXKSKT  : 

"  MADAM,  —  I  retain  the  receipted  bill  of  sale,  and  send 
you  two  thousand  dollars.  I  have  no  words  in  which  to 
offer  you  excuse  or  apolog}*.  I  can  only  obey  your  in 
timated  wish :  I  will  manumit  Lucy  as  soon  as  she  is 
able  to  go  North.  Respectfully, 

"  W.  HARTLEY." 

Mr.  Page  rubbed  his  hands,  and  said,  in  a  feeble, 
palliative  tone  :  "  I  think  he  wants  to  repair  his  offence, 
—  to  do  what  is  right." 

To  which  the  doctor  responded  :  "  It  was  his  best 
way  out  of  it.  He  is  selfish  enough  to  see  what  is  good 
for  him." 

Margaret  was  silent,  which  argued  badly  for  her 
temper.  A  woman  is  only  silent  at  white  heat. 

Somehow  the  story  got  wind.  (Possibly  Mr.  Page 
told  his  wife  ?)  The  garrison  gossips  waited  anxiously 


52  BABY  RUE. 


for  new  developments.  There  was  a  constant  flutter  of 
femininities  in  Mrs.  Leszinksky's  little  cottage,  though 
no  one  exactly  dared  question  her.  Every  one  was  in 
awe  of  the  saint  in  her  anger ;  and  ah1  knew  she  had 
shown  temper.  (Mr.  Page  must  have  told  his  wife.) 
There  were  lounging  masculine  groups  constantly  about 
the  parade-ground  in  front  of  Margaret's  door.  Mike 
O'Dowd  wore  an  air  of  mj'ster}-  and  importance,  and 
would  come  at  all  hours  to  the  kitchen-gate,  calling  in 
a  tragic  whisper  to  Mary,  as  if  there  were  a  corpse  in 
the  house. 

There  is  no  use  to  try  to  stifle  or  conceal  the  truth : 
our  saint  was  in  a  rage.  —  a  rage  which  all  these  prickles 
made  explosive.  She  would  have  kept  her  anger  hid 
den  in  her  own  house  but  for  these  prying,  persistent, 
kindly-enough-meaning  intruders.  So  one  evening  she 
appeared  on  parade-ground  at  the  hour  of  drill. 

Hartley  was  stupid  enough  to  misunderstand  her  ap 
pearance.  He  walked  up  to  the  group  of  ladies,  and 
commenced  a  half-spoken  "  Mrs.  Leszink  —  "  when  she 
turned  on  him,  with  eyes  flashing  and  cheeks  aflame. 
A  moment's  hesitation,  and  the  hastily-closed  hand  un 
clasped.  She  could  not  give  the  lie  to  all  the  traditions 
of  those  stately  Virginian  ladies  whose  blood  was  in  her 
veins ;  but  she  would  not  recognize  as  an  acquaintance 
a  man  for  whom  she  had  no  feeling  but  contempt.  So, 
looking  at  him  steadily  until  his  eyes  dropped  before 
the  clear,  pure  light  of  hers,  she  turned  without  a  word, 
and  left  him.  Captain  Ben  and  even'  young  subaltern 
uncovered  as  she  passed.  Not  one  did  she  fail  to  recog 
nize  :  she  intended  to  make  the  difference  seen  and  felt. 
They  would  have  cheered  her  if  they  had  dared.  Hart 
ley's  brow  darkened :  the  evil  in  the  man  was  forever 
set  against  the  saint  who  had  scorned  him  before  men's 
eyes. 

Before  Leszinkskj*  returned,  Lucy  and  her  child  were 
gone.  Captain  Hartley  had  given  Mike  O'Dowd  a  fur 
lough.  Margaret's  bitterness  (for  the  saint's  anger 
had  not  altogether  subsided),  was  somewhat  sweetened 
by  the  thought  that  the  poor  girl  would  have  the 


CAMP  AND  GARKISON.  53 

kindly  care  of  the  O'Dowds  to  Cincinnati.  Mr.  Page 
had  arranged,  with  a  friend  who  lived  there,  half-yearly 
payments  of  the  interest  of  the  purchase-money.  As 
the  receipts  must  come  back,  Lucy  would  not  altogether 
drift  into  the  unknown. 


54  BABY  RUE. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

THE  prince  of  darkness  is  a  gentleman. 

MARLOWE. 

HARTLEY'S  manner  was  so  changed  for  the  better, 
he  was  so  guardedly  courteous  in  his  general 
demeanor,  so  modestly  generous  in  the  arrangements 
made,  through  Mr.  Page  and  the  doctor,  for  Lucy's 
journey,  that  he  began  to  win  partisans  in  the  garrison. 
Women,  who  had  hitherto  hidden  their  jealousy  of  our 
saint,  now  "  let  slip  the  dogs  of  war."  All  admitted 
that  "  the  painful  fact  had  been  a  glaring  indiscretion " 
(the  expression  and  the  emphasis  were  the  parson's),  but 
Hartle}T's  after  conduct,  his  defenders  [  !]  claimed,  was 
unexceptionable.  Moreover,  in  a  gossip-loving  little 
garrison,  Margaret's  silence  and  reserve  offended.  Little 
by  little,  envy  and  jealously  found  tongue.  At  length  one 
feminine  critic  hazarded  the  remark  that  Mrs.  Leszink- 
sky  had  been  "  negligent  in  the  supervision  of  her 
household,  and  then  unjust  in  her  anger." 

The  blank  look  of  astonishment  in  the  face  of  Cap 
tain  Ben,  who  was  one  of  her  auditors,  caused  a  hastily 
added,  "  But  she  is  so  young  and  has  been  so  spoiled, 
we  all  excuse  her." 

Then  the  bold  dragoon  found  words:  "Very  good 
of  you  all,  I  am  sure,  to  excuse  her  for  Hartley's 
misconduct.  By  JoAre,  I  begin  to  believe  the  more 
thorough  a  blackguard  a  man  is,  the  more  sure  is  he 
of  defence  from  the  sex  he  insults  !  A  }*ear  ago  that 
fellow  had  n't  a  friend  in  the  regiment,  whilst  now, 
since  he  has  betrayed  the  hospitality  of  the  house  that 


CAMP  AND  GARRISON.  55 

was  opened  to  him  because  of  his  friendlessness,  you 
•women  take  him  up  and  make  of  him  a  sort  of  pattern 
sample  of  suffering  virtue." 

Before  the  smoke  of  his  hand-grenade  had  blown 
away,  Captain  Ben  retired  in  good  order,  disregarding 
the  scattering  shot  fired  in  his  rear. 

Notwithstanding  the  feminine  verdict  which  "  recom 
mended  to  mere}',"  the  officers  of  the  garrison  in  a 
courteously  cool  way  sent  Hartley  to  Coventr}*.  The 
jovial  Florida  veteran  and  the  beardless  graduate  of 
West  Point  stiffened  into  a  rigid  politeness  which  was 
not  unbent  in  his  presence. 

I  do  not  wish  the  reader  to  understand  that  the  1st 
Regiment  of  dragoons  were  unswerving  find  incorruptible 
moralists.  I  regret,  as  a  truthful  historian,  to  be  forced 
to  say  they  fell  very  far  short  of  such  perfection.  But 
they  were  gentlemen  in  the  main.  Graft  a  gentleman 
into  the  army,  and  to  the  fearless  honesty  of  the  soldier 
is  added  a  finer  quality,  —  a  chivalric  clairvoj'ance,  quick 
and  true  in  its  recognition  of  right,  its  reverence  for 
purity.  It  was  this  that  had  shrined  Margaret  in  the 
heart  of  the  regiment,  and  made  devout  worshippers  of 
these  caval^men  of  facile  manners  and  ( I  am  sorry  to 
record  it)  loose  virtue. 

In  meeting  the  difficulties  of  his  position  Hartley 
proved  superior  to  the  estimate  heretofore  made  of  his 
abilit}'.  With  wonderful  adroitness  he  had  turned  the 
move  of  his  antagonist  to  his  own  advantage.  His  instant 
acceptance  of  Margaret's  offer  ;  his  ready  acquiescence 
in  every  proposal  made  by  Mr.  Page ;  the  respectful 
attention  given  to  every  suggestion  of  the  doctor ;  the 
tact  and  foresight  with  which  all  arrangements  were 
made  for  the  quiet  and  unobserved  departure  of  the 
O'Dowd  travelling  party,  — won  open  compliment  from 
Mr.  Page,  reluctant  approval  from  the  doctor,  and 
fierce  oaths  from  Captain  Ben,  whose  antagonism  was 
growing  more  and  more  pronounced  as  Hartley  untan 
gled  the  meshes  of  the  net  into  which  he  had  fallen. 

Many  who  had  hitherto  hesitatingly  excused,  now 
openly  defended  Hartle}'.  Others  were  willing  to  ignore 


56  BABY  RUE. 


the  offence  in  consideration  of  the  changed  manner  of 
the  man.  The  doctor,  certainly  the  shrewdest  analyst 
who  observed  him,  regarded  curiously,  and  with  no 
slight  admiration,  the  ease  with  which  Hartley  turned 
every  incident  to  his  advantage  in  his  battle  with  opin 
ion,  until  he  finally  plucked  "  the  flower  safety  from  the 
nettle  danger." 

Late  in  the  evening  after  Leszinksky's  arrival,  Mar 
garet  sat  in  the  little  sitting-room  alone  with  Baby  Rue. 
Madame  Castalar  and  her  daughter  had  been  sent  for, 
and  had  returned  to  the  ranch  two  days  before.  Cap 
tain  Ben  and  Mr.  Page  had  both  been  sometime  with  her 
husband  in  his  smoking-den  across  the  hall ;  now  they 
too  were  gone,  and  the  doctor  alone  was  there.  She  was 
anxious  and  nervous.  She  had  tried  in  all  ways  to  tell 
the  story  of  the  last  few  weeks  to  her  husband,  without 
exciting  him  to  anger.  She  had  done  what  she  could 
in  his  absence.  It  was  something,  in  her  excited  state, 
to  remember  his  solemn  smile  of  approval  as  he  read 
the  copy  she  had  kept  for  him  of  her  letter  to  Hartley. 
But  she  had  been  interrupted  before  she  could  win  from 
him  his  determination  as  to  his  own  course  of  action. 
It  was  late :  she  wished  the  doctor  would  go,  but  there 
came  a  knock  at  the  door.  She  heard  her  husband 
answer  it.  Shiveringly  she  recognized  Hartley's  voice. 
How  slowly  the  minutes  dragged  !  She  bent  over  her 
baby's  cradle  and  thought  of  her  own  orphanage.  She 
had  unbounded  trust  in  her  husband,  but  he  was  a  sol 
dier,  and  in  those  days  men  stood  face  to  face  in  deadly 
encounter  with  far  less  cause  than  Hartley  had  given. 

Then,  for  the  first  time  in  all  those  trying  weeks,  her 
courage  failed,  —  failed  as  her  anger  burnt  out,  and  the 
Christian  remembered  she  had  not  forgiven  the  sinner 
who  had  injured  her.  Prostrate  beside  her  child's  cradle, 
she  prayed  for  forgiveness,  for  the  life  of  her  husband, 
and  also  that  he  might  do  no  murder, —  that  her  pride  of 
heart  might  not  be  visited  on  him.  Who  dare  say  the 
Great  White  Throne  is  not  reached  by  such  pra}-ers? 

To  Margaret  an  answer  came.  Her  husband's  arms 
were  around  her.  From  his  lips  came  the  praj'er  of  all 


CAMP  AND  GARRISON.  S7 

pra}-ers,  and  the  words,  "Forgive  us  our  trespasses 
as  we  forgive  those  who  trespass  against  us,"  told  her 
that  her  fear  was  needless. 

Of  his  interview  with  Hartley,  Leszinksky  told  no 
one.  The  doctor  also  was  silent,  but  Hartley,  meeting 
Captain  Ben  with  Mr.  Page  next  day,  said :  — 

"Moore,  I  know  you  think  me  a  scoundrel:  for  the 
past  your  judgment  is  correct,  but  do  not  judge  me  now 
for  the  future.  The  truest  gentleman  of  you  all  is 
Leszinksky  :  I  saw  him  last  night,  and  old  King  Stanis 
laus  himself  could  not  have  forgiven  me  more  royally." 


PART  n. 

MOUNT    HOPE. 


No  cord  or  cable  can  draw  so  forcibly,  or  bind  so  fast,  as  love  can 
do  with  only  a  single  thread. 

LORD  BACON. 


PART    H. 

MOUNT    HOPE. 


CHAPTER   VIII. 

WHO  everjoved  that  loved  not  at  first  sight  ? 

MARLOWE. 

MARCH  was  going  out  like  a  lamb.  The  air  was 
soft  and  warm  as  it  swept  up  the  valley  from  the 
south,  laden  with  the  faint,  sweet  odours  of  the  early 
spring ;  the  sky  overhead  a  tender  blue,  flecked  with 
tiny,  white  cloudlets.  At  the  horizon's  verge  it  banked 
in  misty,  gray  rifts,  that  were  lost  in  the  deeper  shades 
of  the  pine-clad  peaks  and  broken  chain  of  the  Blue 
Ridge.  From  cleft  and  ravine,  from  jutting  spur  and 
mountain-top,  little  rivulets  came  dancing  into  the  val- 
le}^,  —  threads  of  silver  on  the  mountain-side,  bur 
nished  steel  in  the  meadows,  with  the  dark-blue  sheen 
of  a  Damascus  blade  as  they  gurgled  over  rocky  beds 
in  the  forest,  at  last  all  their  wild  beauty  and  glad  life 
lost  in  the  rolling,  yellow  waters  of  the  Hardware,  that 
wound  in  serpentine  coils  through  the  county  of  Albe- 
marle  to  its  confluence  with  the  James.  The  valley  is 
some  thirty  miles  in  extent,  with  a  northern  and 
western  boundary  of  mountains,  while  to  the  south  and 
east  stretch  the  long,  rising  swells  which  finally  grow 
sharp  and  well-defined  in  the  hills  on  the  southern 
bank  of  the  James  that  mark  the  beginning  of  the  Pied 
mont  range. 

On  a  knoll  which  from  its  solitary  situation  seemed  a 
lost  spur  of  the  mountains  stood  an  old-fashioned  frame 
house,  with  a  wide  hall  that  divided,  and  verandas  that 


62  BABY  RUE. 


surrounded  it.  Ever}'thing  in  its  appearance  told  of  de 
cay  and  changed  fortune.  On  one  side  the  roof  of  the 
veranda  had  fallen,  hastened  to  its  doom  by  the  clinging 
weight  of  a  tangled  Virginia  creeper,  that  now  shrouded 
with  glossy  leaves  and  tender  green  shoots  the  ruin 
it  had  wrought.  The  blurred  gray  and  blue  color 
that  had  succeeded  the  worn  and  weather-stained  white 
paint  deepened  the  artistic  effect.  The  house  fronted 
south,  where  the  ascent  was  easy  and  gradual,  through 
an  avenue  of  old  Lombard}'  poplars,  their  topmost 
branches  palsied  and  dying.  On  the  north  side  the 
knoll  was  broken  to  a  sharp,  bold  cliff,  and  against 
its  base  the  Hardware  chafed  and  fretted  when  a 
spring  freshet  gave  it  strength  for  attack.  From  the 
top  of  this  cliff  to  the  north  veranda,  there  had  once 
been  a  succession  of  wide  terraces  ;  but  these  were  now 
broken  and  irregular,  overgrown  with  myrtle  and  peri 
winkle  that  had  crowded  out  the  less  hardy  plants, 
though  here  and  there  the  blue  63*68  of  violets  gleamed 
from  their  hiding-places  as  the  wind  played  through  the 
leaves. 

The  view  from  the  terraces  was  one  of  the  most  rest 
ful  and  beautiful  in  that  restful  and  beautiful  county  of 
Albemarle.  It  overlooked  the  rich  valley  of  the  north 
ern  bank  of  the  Hardware  with  its  carpet-like  furrows, 
where  later  the  waving  corn  and  broad-leaved  tobacco 
would  ripen  in  the  sun.  Beyond  this  were  sloping  hill 
sides,  where  woodland,  orchard,  and  clearing  revealed 
some  modest  home ;  or  else  steeple-like  chimneys, 
stately  trees,  far-stretching  grain-fields  told  the  pres 
ence  of  some  old  manor-house.  Back  of  all  curved  that 
cloud-touched  ridge  of  wonderful,  deep-sea  blue. 

On  the  west  side,  half-hidden  by  the  gnarled  boughs 
of  an  old  orchard,  was  the  kitchen.  Lower  down  the 
hillside  were  three  or  four  dilapidated  negro  cabins, 
where  the  "truck-patches"  already  planted  showed 
some  signs  of  life.  Still  lower,  at  the  very  base  of  the 
hill,  near  the  river,  were  the  "  folks'  quarters,"  now 
only  a  deserted  village.  It  was  evident,  from  all  signs, 
that  the  Masons  of  Mount  Hope  were  so  nearly 


MOUNT  HOPE.  63 

obliterated  that  they  would  be  swept  away  in  the  surg 
ing  rise  of  another  generation. 

On  the  south  porch,  seated  in  an  old  splint-bottomed 
easy-chair,  was  the  last  of  a  line  of  Virginian  gentle 
men  whose  progenitor  had  fought  with  Prince  Rupeit. 
A  stately  negress  stood  near,  arranging  on  a  little  table 
her  master's  noon-day  meal.  The  white  cloth  and  beau 
tiful  old  china,  the  appetizing  odour  of  the  chicken  broth, 
the  golden  butter  and  clear  honey,  the  snowy  bread  and 
rich  milk,  would  have  charmed  an  epicure  ;  but  noth with 
standing  the  kindly  yet  respectful  insistence  of  his  at 
tendant,  Judge  Mason  ate  but  little,  turning  from  time 
to  time  an  expectant  look  down  the  avenue. 

"  Sara,  it  is  time  that  Abram  was  back  with  the 
mail." 

"  I  dunno,  marster.  Brown  Bess  can't  travel  like 
she  used  to ;  an'  if  de  stage  ain't  come  by  Dr.  Carter's 
3'et,  Daddy  '11  wait.  He  knows  you  mus'  have  a  letter 
to-day." 

"I  have  not  many  days  to  wait  in,  Sara;  but  I 
know  Stan  too  well  to  doubt  they  will  come.  If  he  can 
not  get  leave  to  come  himself,  he  will  send  his  wife  and 
child,  that  I  may  bless  them,  and  tell  Mary  I  have  seen 
them." 

' '  Lord  !  marster,  you  '11  get  well  now.  You  's  a  heap 
sight  better  since  de  weather's  turn.  Dese  wahm  days 
jis  puts  new  life  in  us  all.  An'  if  Miss  Marg'ret  an'  de 
baby  stay  all  summer,  Marse  Stan  mus'  come  fur  'em ; 
an'  mebby  den  dey '11  stay  fur  good." 

"  No,  Stan  cannot  resign.  I  would  not  ask  it ;  I  do 
not  wish  it.  But  God  knows  how  my  heart  yearns  to 
see  my  Mary's  boy  before  I  go  to  her ! " 

The  rapid  patter  of  bare  feet  was  heard  on  the  west 
veranda,  and  a  .young  negro  boy  came  flying  around  the 
corner,  fairly  shrieking:  "Oscar's  a  comin'  froo  de 
near  way  wid  Marse  Stan's  little  pickaninn}r !  He  brung 
her  straight  frum  de  stage  by  de  near  path.  Doctor 
Carter  's  sendin'  Marse  Stan  an'  young  mistis  in  his 
buggy  an'  grandaddy  's  wid  dem.  Heah  he  is !  Heah  's 
Oscar  now ! " 


64  BABY  RUE, 


Before  they  had  roused  from  the  stupor  produced  by 
this  announcement,  Oscar  was  on  the  veranda,  with 
Baby  Rue  in  his  arms.  He  wrung  his  mother's  hand 
hastily,  who  broke  from  his  grasp  to  extend  both  hands 
for  the  child. 

"  God  bless  her,  — Marse  Stan's  baby !  Give  her  to 
me,  Oscar." 

"  No !  Old  marster  first"  ;  and  he  held  her  toward 
the  old  man. 

"  Heah  she  is,  sir, — Marse  Stan's  chile.  An'  her 
mother 's  as  good  —  as  good  as  Miss  Mary  was.  They 
started  jis  as  soon  as  they  heard  you  was  poorly,  sir ; 
an'  they  ain't  stopped  day  nor  night  till  we 's  heah." 

"Baby  darling!  My  Mary's  little  granddaughter! 
Blessed  be  God,  that  he  has  let  me  live  to  look  on  your 
face  !  "  and  the  venerable  old  man  took  the  j-oung  child 
in  his  arms. 

She  first  looked  wonderingly  at  him,  then  smilingly  at 
Oscar,  after  which,  with  a  little,  tired  sigh  (for  she  was 
worn  with  the  long,  rapid  walk  through  the  fields),  she 
laid  her  head  on  her  grandsire's  shoulder,  and  slept. 

When  the  others  arrived  the  long,  scant,  white  locks 
rested  softly  on  the  deep  gold  rings  that  crowned  the 
baby  head. 


Here,  O  reader,  is  the  proper  time  and  place  to  intro 
duce  to  you  more  particularly  our  heroine, — the  child 
whose  changing  fortunes  you  and  I  shall  follow  together ; 
the  woman,  yet  in  embryo,  whose  personality  is  so 
strongly  marked  that  her  intimate  acquaintances  have 
already  learned  its  characteristics.  We  have  heard 
Carson  define  her.  We  know  how  persistent  Captain 
Hartley  found  her  dislike.  Oscar  has  felt  the  sweetness 
of  her  sympath}',  and  in  his  grateful  fervor  has  devoted 
his  life  to  her  service.  Her  father,  with  what  justice  the 
future  will  prove,  calls  her  the  "young  voyvode." 
Whilst  our  saint  sometimes  looks  with  a  sort  of  pitiful 
awe  into  the  gray  depths  of  the  clear  eyes  which  flash 
and  lighten  with  a  weird  consciousness  of  something  we 


MOUNT  HOPE.  65 


are  too  far  off  to  fathom.  Is  it  the  Past,  crying  its  memo 
ries  to  the  soul  that  is  escaping  from  a  riven  shell,  or 
the  gathering  of  lost  elements  that  have  at  length  de 
veloped  new  power  to  force  themselves  into  visible  form 
and  shape? 

All  about  the  child  have  already  learned  that  neither 
force  nor  restraint  will  tame  her.  To  pain  she  is  resist 
ant,  not  submissive,  with  a  queer,  baby  stoicism  that 
makes  outcry  rare.  Obeying  with  perfect  docility  a  re 
quest,  she  is  imperturbably  obstinate  to  a  command  ; 
taking  with  absolute  insistence  from  a  hand  she  dis 
likes  the  least  of  her  possessions,  she  is  recklessly  prodi 
gal  of  gifts  to  one  she  loves.  A  wonderful  instance  of 
heredity,  this  child,  whose  triune  nature  has  come  to  her 
through  the  ages  from  the  Lechzynczski-Kabilovitsch, 
intensified  by  change  and  reaction  from  change.  She 
has  not  a  feature,  not  a  trace,  of  the  mother  who  bore 
her.  How  could  she?  Margaret's  utter  abnegation  of 
self  made  of  her  the  susceptible  and  impressionable 
mould  that  nursed  to  life  this  reincarnation  of  the  race 
from  which  her  king  had  sprung. 

From  the  moment  of  her  arrival  at  Mount  Hope  there 
was  the  closest  friendship,  the  most  perfect  understand 
ing,  between  Baby  Rue  and  her  great-grandfather.  The 
imperious  child  ruled  the  gentle  old  man  with  a  royal 
kindliness.  He  was  her  playmate,  her  slave ;  but  he 
had  full  pa3'ment  for  service.  Bountiful!}'  she  gave  him 
an  overflowing  measure  of  affection.  Her  father,  here 
tofore  chief  favorite,  was  second  to  his  grandsire.  The 
extremes  of  four  generations  and  opposite  tempera 
ments  had  touched,  and  flashed  into  instant  recognition 
and  affection  through  that  magical  magnetism  which,  for 
want  of  truer  definition,  we  call  the  instinct  of  blood. 
For  the  old  man  this  baby  had  blotted  out  two  genera 
tions,  and  seemed  his  very  own,  the  child  of  his  loins. 

In  the  second  week  of  her  stay  he  made  his  will,  and 
named  her  heiress  of  Mount  Hope.  He  had  the  less 
scruple  in  so  doing,  as  her  mother's  large  estate,  in  a 
dozen  subdivisions,  would  make  any  other  children  that 
might  come  far  richer  than  his  heiress.  But,  barren  and 

5 


66  BAB  Y  RUE. 


in  half- ruin  as  the  place  was,  it  was  the  manor-house  of 
the  Masons,  and  so  a  fit  gift  for  his  darling.  He  half- 
apologized  to  his  grandson  for  his  choice  of  legatee  ;  but 
"  King  Stan,"  in  his  grand  manner,  thanked  Judge  Ma 
son  for  the  love  that  singled  out  as  his  heiress  the  first 
daughter  of  the  Leszinkskys. 

In  her  last  week,  April  took  payment  from  March  for 
the  days  she  had  lent.  A  fierce  wind  blew  from  the  north 
east,  driving  in  gust}r  swells  a  beating,  cold  rain.  The 
Hardware  was  up  and  over  its  banks.  Mount  Hope 
had  its  most  sombre  and  gloomy  look.  The  windows 
rattled  ;  and  the  rising  and  falling  tones  of  the  storm  had 
for  accompaniment  the  sound  of  the  swollen  waters  that 
surged  and  whirled  around  the  rocks  at  the  base  of  the 
cliff. 

In  a  lofty  chamber  that  had  once  been  the  drawing- 
room,  the  last  of  the  Masons  of  Mount  Hope  lay  dying. 
During  the  warm  days  Judge  Mason  had  rallied,  but  with 
the  first  breath  of  the  storm  a  change  had  come  ;  and 
now  the  Leszinksk}-s  knew  that  before  another  day  the 
blessed  rest  of  death  would  settle  on  the  63'es  that  had 
wept  and  watched  and  waited  so  long.  The  angel  of 
deliverance  was  at  the  door. 

About  four  in  the  afternoon  the  clouds  lifted  in  the 
west,  and  a  rich  yellow  light  flooded  the  room.  The 
rain  and  the  rush  of  waters  were  still  heard,  but  over  the 
western  horizon  the  bow  of  promise  spanned  the  blue 
arch.  The  warmth,  the  light,  roused  the  d^-ing.  He 
looked  for  an  instant  at  the  faces  that  surrounded  him, 
and  then  said  in  'a  low  but  distinct  voice  :  — 

"  And  the  bow  shall  be  in  the  cloud  ;  and  I  will  look 
upon  it,  that  I  may  remember  the  everlasting  covenant 
between  God  and  every  living  creature  of  all  flesh  that  is 
upon  the  earth."  Then  the  tired  hands  folded  in  bless 
ing  upon  the  baby's  head,  the  tired  ej-elids  closed ;  and 
with  a  low,  faint  sigh  a  soul  passed  into  the  presence  of 
the  Great  Teacher,  to  give  an  account  of  the  lessons 
learned  in  the  flesh. 


MOUNT  HOPE.  67 


CHAPTER  IX. 

BUT  on  and  up,  Avhere  Nature's  heajjfc 
Beats  strong  amid  the  hills. 

MILNES. 

THE  departure  of  the  Leszinksk3-s  from  Mount 
Hope  was  hurried  by  the  sudden  illness  of  Baby 
Rue.  Meaningly  she  would  put  out  her  hands  to  be 
taken  from  room  to  room,  evidently  in  search  of  her  lost, 
playmate.  Oscar's  most  subtle  wiles  to  attract  her  out 
into  the  grounds  were  unavailing.  A  peculiar,  pretty 
way  she  had  of  asking,  with  a  wave  of  her  open  hand, 
and  a  pathetic  quiver  of  the  lip,  always  brought  the  faith 
ful  fellow  back  to  their  ever-failing  quest.  A  letter  from 
Carson  decided  the  immediate  return  of  the  Leszink- 
skys  to  the  garrison.  (Leszinksky  had  thought  of 
leaving  Margaret  and  Baby  Rue  at  the  White  Sulphur 
Springs.)  The  last  page  of  his  epistle  was  :  — 

"  Hartley  has  resigned,  and  has  gone  to  Kew  York, 
where  he  has  inherited  the  savings  of  a  miserly  uncle, 
who  was  in  the  American  Fur  Company.  Chance  al 
ways  favors  a  scoundrel.  He  a  millionaire,  whilst 
honest  fellows  like  3*011  and  me  live  on  the  pitiful  pay 
this  grateful  country  allows  the  poor  devils  who  get 
hashed  on  the  frontiers  that  peltries  may  be  accumu 
lated  ! 

"I  see  but  one  good  in  Hartley's  windfall, — 3~ou 
can  bring  Oscar  back  with  3-011.  He,  too,  poor  fellow, 
must  bear  the  chafing  of  a  fretful  sore  that  the  gentleman 
ma3'  have  his  pleasure.  I  am  more  orthodox  than  I 
used  to  be  in  the  West  Point  days  when  sister  Mary 
grieved  over  my  heresies.  I  believe  now  in  a  hell, 


68  BAB  Y  RUE. 


and  a  hot  one ;  for  there  are  villains  loose  here  who  are 
fit  for  no  other  finish,  —  they  were  predestined  from  all 
eternity  to  be  damned  !  I  'm  going  to  squeeze  through 
Saint  Peter's  gate,  if  it  rubs  off  all  m}'  pet  sins,  for  the 
pleasure  of  seeing  them  ordered  the  other  road. 

"  However,  since  Judge  Cartaret's  recent  marriage 
with  Hartley's  sister,  Mrs.  Leszinksky  may  not  like  even 
truths  said  of  her  new  connections,  —  though  I  fancy 
she  will  not  be  anxious  to  include  Hartley  in  the  rela 
tionship. 

"But  I  have  something  better  than  all  this  to  tell 
you  :  Castalar  was  in  last  week,  and  he  has  traded  his 
warehouse  at  Van  Buren  for  Bouie's  pretty  little  place 
on  the  hills.  There  were  logs  already  hewn  for  a  new 
addition  to  the  house,  and  the  day  after  the  purchase 
Castalar  had  a  '  raising.'  The  new  house  is  well  built, 
and  is  now  three  rooms  deep  each  side  of  a  wide  hall, 
with  outside  kitchen  and  cabins  in  good  order.  The 
situation  is  as  healthful  as  it  is  pretty.  Now  for  the 
conclusion  of  my  story :  Castalar  wishes  you  to  live 
there.  He  will  make  a  lease  for  as  long  as  you  like, 
the  only  condition  being  that  when  Madame  Castalar  or 
her  daughter  needs  change  the}r  may  come  to  }~ou. 
Stephanie  is  very  delicate,  and  the  doctor  advises  her 
to  stay  here  during  the  spring  and  fall,  to  avoid  the 
river  malaria  at  the  ranch.  I  knew  Mrs.  Leszinksky 
would  be  glad  to  have  them,  so  I  promised  that  you 
would  accept. 

"  All  '  Ours '  are  helping  to  get  things  in  order.  Cas 
talar  begs  3'ou  to  come  '  home '  soon.  By  the  first  of 
May  all  will  be  ready.  Some  of  us  will  meet  3-011  at 
Van  Buren  with  the  ambulance  and  baggage- wagon." 

Preparations  already  begun  at  Mount  Hope  for  the 
break-up,  were  now  more  hurried.  An  offer  for  the 
place,  on  a  ten  j'ears'  lease,  for  a  boarding-school,  was 
accepted.  The  few  servants  left  were  given  their  choice 
of  being  hired  at  Mount  Hope  or  going  with  the  Leszink- 
skys.  Uncle  Abram,  the  patriarch  of  the  tribe,  had 
packed  his  belongings  for  the  trip  to  the  Indian  Territory 
some  da}-s  -before  this  announcement.  When  the  calm 


MOUNT  HOPE.  69 


and  stately  Sara  suggested  that  he  had  better  await 
"  Marse  Stan's  "  decision,  he  said  :  — 

"  My  ole  'oman  went  to  de  New  Geruzlum  las'  fall ; 
an'  now  ole  marster  's  done  follered  her,  I  ain't  no  kashun 
to  stay  at  Mount  Hope.  Whar  Marse  Stan  goes  I 
goes  ;  whar  Miss  Marg'ret  lives  I  wants  to  live.  Wh}', 
don't  yer  see  her  a-wearin'  dat  haht  I  guv  her,  dat 
Marse  Stan  cut,  sot  in  pure  gole?  Ef  I  was  sure  an' 
sartin  dat  de  Injins  would  take  my  ole  skullp,  like 
Oscar  says  dey  do  take  'em,  I  'd  go  all  de  same.  I 
can't  risk  dem  young  folks  to  take  keer  ob  demselves  no 
longer ;  an'  Oscar  ain't  got  no  prudent  sort  o'  sense. 
Now,  Sara,  you  mout  be  some  use.  You's  a-gwine, 
ain't  yer  ?  " 

"  Yes  ;  if  Marse  Stan  '11  take  me  an'  my  boys." 

"In  course,  he'll  take  you  all.  What  else  is  he 
gwine  ter  do?  You  didn't  think  he'd  sell  any  ob  de 
Mason  folks,  did  yer?" 

"  Ole  marster's  debts  ain't  all  paid  yet.  Mebby  he  '11 
have  to  sell  some  on  us." 

"  No,  he  won't  have  to  do  no  sich  thing,  an'  Miss 
Marg'ret  so  rich  !  " 

"Yes;  but,  Dadd}',  I  heerd  ole  marster  say  Miss 
Marg'ret  guv  up  all  to  marry  Marse  Stan.  Leastwise, 
she  can't  get  nuthin'  fur  a  long  time.  Her  chillun  '11  be 
rich  sometime." 

"  Den,  why  did  n't  ole  marster  leave  Mount  Hope  to 
Marse  Stan,  an'  not  to  dat  little  pickaninny?" 

"Mebby  'twas  because  ole  marster  knowed  dat 
Marse  Stan  would  sell  de  place  sooner 'n  sell  an}* on  us. 
I 's.  mightily  'fraid  some  on  us  mus'  go  to  pay  de 
debts." 

"  We  ain't  a-gwine  to  be  sold  to  pay  no  debts,"  said 
Sara's  youngest  son,  looking  with  a  sharp  twinkle  of  his 
bead}',  bright  e}*es  at  his  mother. 

"  How  you  know  so  much?  Whar  you  git  so 
smart  ? " 

"  I  wuz  in  de  sittin'-room  las'  night  playin'  wid  de 
baby,  an'  I  heerd  Miss  Marg'ret  an'  Marse  Stan  fix  up 
all  'bout  us  all." 


7O  BABY  RUE. 


"How  dar1  you  listen  at  de  white  folks,  }'er  lim'? 
Ef  }'ou  heerd  so  much,  I  s'pose  you  kin  tell  what  dey  is 
gwine  ter  do  ? " 

"  Dey 's  gwine  to  rent  de  place  to  de  Miss  Minors  fur 
a  skool,  an'  hire  dem  Uncle  Abe,  cos  he  kin  stay  heah 
an'  go  like  he  does  now  mos'  ebery  night  to  Doctor 
Carter's  to  see  Aunt  Sukey  an'  de  chilltm.  Miss  Mar- 
g'ret  say  dat  would  pay  de  intruss,  an'  arter  a  while, 
when  she  got  her  money,  she  would  pay  de  res'  of  it  fur 
little  Miss  Rue." 

' '  I  knowed  't  was  de  Lord  send  her  when  I  guv  her 
her  dat  haht!"  exclaimed  Uncle  Abram.  "I  knowed 
she  was  de  angel  ob  deliberance  to  dis  bankrupped 
place.  I's  more  sot  den  eber  on  gwine  to  de  New 
Geruzlum  straight  from  whar  she  's  a-livin'.  I  '11  want 
to  tell  ole  marster  jis  whar  de}*  is." 

A  few  daj's  later  the  choice  was  offered  Uncle  Abram 
and  Sara  that  Solomon  (the  j'oung  scamp  was  not 
badly  named)  had  foretold.  Abram  the  second  stayed 
in  the  land  of  his  wife  ;  whilst  the  patriarch,  his  daughter 
Sara,  Oscar,  and  the  younger  boys  followed  the  fortunes 
of  their  "Marse  Stan." 


PART  III. 

BOUIE'S    HILL. 


THE  web  of  our  life  is  of  a  mingled  yarn,  good  and  ill  together. 

SHAKSPERE. 


PART   HI. 

BOUIE'S    HILL. 


CHAFfER  X. 

"  Then  he  will  talk  —  good  gods  !  how  he  will  talk ! " 

NATHANIEL  LEE. 

AT  Bouie's  Hill,  two  miles  from  Fort  Gibson,  on  a 
hot,  cloudless  day  in  June,  sat  Uncle  Abram,  on 
a  mossy  bank  at  the  foot  of  the  hill,  looking  -with  justi 
fiable  pride  at  the  work  he  had  that  morning  completed. 
It  was  a  handsome  new  gate,  opening  into  the  hillside 
orchard  where  the  road  wound  back  and  forth  in  its 
gradual  ascent  to  the  house, — a  gate  easily  opened  by 
the  driver  of  any  conveyance  without  descending  from 
his  -seat.  The  weights  and  pullej's  worked  perfectly,  as 
Solomon,  who  had  just  brought  his  grandfather's  din 
ner,  proved  by  repeated  trials.  The  old  gate  had  been 
a  sore  grievance  to  Uncle  Abram  ever  since  his  arrival 
at  Bouie's  Hill.  Brown  Bess  had  been  left  in  Virginia 
to  end  her  days  in  the  home  paddock ;  so  the  mount  of 
the  patriarch  was  a  fractious  mule,  —  a  mule  capable 
of  a  resistance  to  persuasion  equalled  only  by  its  dis 
regard  of  blows. 

Mules  and  negroes,  in  their  perfect  adaptability  to 
one  another,  do  somehow  arrive  at  an  understanding  by 
which  the}T  measure  the  necessary  duration  of  their 
contests.  The}-  learn  to  gauge  perfectly  the  length  of 
time  a  well-bred  mule  demands  before  consenting  to  do 
the  will  of  an  ii'ate  African.  But  this  mule  and  Uncle 
Abram  were  either  too  new  to  each  other  or  else  ill- 
matched  in  the  ordinary  mule-and-uegro  requirements. 


74  BABY  RUE. 


Tinker  no  stress  of  compulsion  would  this  hybrid  come 
near  the  gate  without  backing  at  every  effort  to  open  it 
made  by  the  luckless  rider.  In  these  daily  contests 
Uncle  Abram  had  never  been  conqueror.  To  escape 
the  humiliation  of  repeated  defeat,  he  had  now  made  a 
gate  the  successful  working  of  which  was  to  bring  him 
triumph.  Solomon  skilfully  won  permission  for  each 
new  trial  of  the  chef  d'ceuvre  by  compliments  to  his 
grandfather's  skill  and  defiance  of  his  adversary. 

"Hi!  but  it  work  s'purb.  Dat  mule  can't  holp 
hisself  now ;  he  jis  'bleeged  to  cum  froo  widouten  a 
fuss.  Golly  !  ain't  he  gwine  to  be  might}'  mad  ?  Hit 's 
de  very  fines'  gate  I  ever  seed.  Why,  de  white  folkses 
won't  know  de  place  w'en  de}"  cum  back.  Dere  ain't 
nuftin  like  it  out  here  in  Rackinsaw.  Hit's  mos'  like 
ole  Firginny." 

"  Yer  done  pull  at  dat  gate  long  nuff,  Solomon.  Go 
right  straight  to  de  house  an'  holp  Mead  get  things 
ready  befo'  de  folks  cum." 

Solomon,  looking  around  for  an  excuse  to  linger 
where  he  was,  caught  sight  of  two  horsemen  coming  up 
the  ravine  through  which  the  creek  wound  its  sinuous 
course  to  the  river,  and  answered  :  "  Laws  !  gran'daddy, 
dere  cum  Marse  Stan  now,  an'  one  dem  hossifers  frum 
de  fote  wid  him.  I  better  show  him  how  to  open  dis 
gate  'fore  I  go." 

"  Your  Marse  Stan  done  open  gates  like  dat  befo' 
yon  was  bawn.  Dey'll  want  some  dinner.  He's  been 
two  weeks  now  out  in  de  Injin  country,  an'  I  spec  he  's 
mos'  starved.  You  jis'  run,  yer  lim',  an'  tole  Mead  to 
hurry  all  he  can  'bout  dar  dinner." 

The  reluctant  Solomon  turned  slowly,  casting  from 
time  to  time  longing  looks  of  curiosity  at  the  party  now 
within  the  gate,  then,  thinking  the  next  best  thing  he 
could  do  was  telling  the  news,  he  hurried  on  to  Mead. 

"  Howd'y',  Uncle  Abram?  Why,  this  looks  like  the 
old  days  at  Mount  Hope,"  said  Leszinksky,  as  he 
caught  the  ring,  made  of  an  old  horse-shoe,  that  opened 
the  gate.  "  I  am  glad  you  can  show  Captain  Moore 
some  of  our  Virginia  inventions." 


BOUIE'S  HILL.  75 

He  then  shook  hands  heartily,  as  he  came  through 
the  gate,  with  the  old  man,  who  stood,  hat  in  hand,  by 
the  roadside. 

"It's  a  first-class  job,"  said  Captain  Moore,  with 
his  kindliest  smile. 

"Thank  3-011,  sah.  I  reckon  you's  from  Firginny 
3'o'self,  sah." 

"No,  I  have  not  the  honor  to  belong  to  the  Old 
Dominion." 

"  1  'm  sorry  fur  it,  sah.  I'd  a  thought  you  was  frum 
dar.  We 's  ob  de  Mason  fam'ly,  sah,  —  de  Masons  ob 
Mount  Hope." 

And  the  old  man  straightened  himself  with  an  air  of 
dignified  consciousness  of  greatness  that  wonderfully 
pleased  the  fancy  of  the  frank,  gay  soldier. 

"  Yes,  I  know,  '  King  Stan '  is  half  a  Mason." 

"  Yes,  sah  ;  an'  de  very  bestest  half.  I  don't  mean 
no  'fence  to  de  Desinkskys,  Marse  Stan;  but  you  see, 
sah," —  to  Captain  Moore,  — "  he 's  de  very  moral  ob  my 
Miss  Mary.  Now,  sah,  it  am  a  strange  thing,  dis 
heah,  who  chillun  takes  arter.  Sometime  dey  breeds 
back  an'  back.  It's  like  a  fine  stallion  my  ole  marster 
—  de  judge's  father,  sah  —  brung  frum'Inglan.  He 
was  a  great  racer,  sah  ;  an'  in  dem  ole  times  he  jis  beat 
every  boss  in  de  State,  an'  he  won  ole  marster  a  power 
o'  money ;  but  he  had  a  glass  eye.  An'  all  his  colts 
arter  two  ginerations  frum  dat  day  to  dis  kin  be  tole 
anywhar  in  Firginny,  sah  ;  it  broke  out  in  'em.  Dey 's 
all  got  glass  eyes,  —  leastwise  all  dem  dat  ain't  crossed 
wid  scrubs.  Now,  dar 's  our  little  Miss  Rue,  sah ;  she 
ain't  one  bit  Cart'ret  like  Miss  Marg'ret,  needer  am  she 
a  Mason  — " 

"  She  has  the  Leszinksky  glass  eye,"  laughed  Captain 
Moore. 

"  No,  sah,  not  quite  dat,  but  she  am  a  Desinksky  out 
an'  out.  Sometimes  I  see  ole  Gin'ral  Desinksky  — 
dat's  Marse  Stan's  gran'father,  sah,  de  king's  son  — 
look  right  straight  outen  her  eyes.  Dat,  sah,  is  when 
she  wants  her  own  way,  an'  she  mean  to  have  it,  an'  she 
mus'  have  it,  an'  she  DO  have  it." 


76  BAB Y  RUE. 


Both  gentlemen  laughed \  and  Leszinksky  interrupted 
Uncle  Abram's  discourse  on  heredity  by  an  inquiry  :  — 

"  Has  your  Miss  Margaret  returned?  " 

"  No,  sah;  but  we 's  a  lookin'  fur  'em  to-day.  De 
doctor  cum  frum  Marse  Cas'lar's  yestedday ;  he  cum  by 
heah  dis  mornin'  on  his  way  to  see  dem  sick  Injins  up 
de  riber,  an'  he  's  a  cornin'  back  heah  to  supper,  sah. 
He  said  Miss  Mar*g'ret  would  be  home  befo'  dat." 

Captain  Moore  pulled  his  moustache  nervously,  and 
asked :  "  Do  they  cross  the  river,  coming  from  Cas- 
talar's,  at  the  ferry  or  at  the  upper  ford?" 

' '  Neither  :  they  come  the  old  trail  —  the  road  through 
the  prairies  —  and  by  the  south  bank.  It  crosses  the 
Canadian  a  few  miles  above  its  confluence  with  the 
Arkansas,  and  the  Arkansas  four  miles  below  here." 

They  rode  on  up  the  hill.  Leszinkskj*,  leading  the 
wa}*,  did  not  see  the  clouded  face  of  the  dragoon. 
When  they  reached  the  house  they  found  Solomon 
ready  to  take  charge  of  the  horses.  Captain  Moore 
said  hastily  :  — 

"  Do  not  put  my  horse  in  the  stable.  Take  off  the 
saddle. and  strap  the  blanket  on,  and  let  him  rest  out 
there  in  the  shade.  I  shall  want  him  immediately." 

"  But,  Moore,"  said  Leszinksk}-,  "  you  are  not  going 
back  to  the  garrison  until  evening.  Why,  3*011  half 
promised  to  stay  all  night.  The  doctor  and  Margaret 
will  be  here,  and  we  can  have  a  game  of  whist.  Be 
reasonable,  old  fellow ;  they  will  all  want  to  see 
you." 

"  It  may  be  all  nonsense,  Stan,  but  I  was  going  to 
propose  to  you  that  as  soon  as  we  get  some  luncheon  — 
which  you  had  better  tell  them  to  hurry  —  we  go  on  and 
meet  Mrs.  Leszinksky.  A  Delaware  runner,  in  from 
the  Trading  Post  near  the  North  Fork,  overtook  me 
some  ten  miles  from  the  fort  this  morning,  and  he 
reported  both  North  and  South  Fork  as  rising  rapidly . 
It  is  the  June  freshet,  somewhat  delayed,  but  now 
nearly  bank  full.  I  had  forgotten  until  I  heard  that 
Mrs.  Leszinksky  was  at  Castalar's  and  was  coming 
home  to-day.  I  trust  they  have  heard  of  the  rise  and 
are  coming  by  the  ferry." 


BOUIE'S  HILL.  77 


"  No,  the}-  are  not  likel}'  to  hear  of  it.  Castalar's 
ranch  is  shut  in  between  the  hills,  out  of  the  way  of 
passers  by.  Margaret  has  gone  over  the  ground  so 
often  that  she  will  be  fearless.  Oscar  and  Sara  are 
with  her,  and  some  of  the  family  will  come  with  them 
to  the  ford  of  the  Canadian,  —  Castalar  himself,  I  hope  ; 
he  would  be  quick  to  see  any  change,  as  he  is  an 
accomplished  frontiersman.  But  we  will  go  at  once, 
only  you  must  excuse  a  hasty  snack.  Mead  will  give 
us  whatever  he  has.  Solomon,  is  your  Miss  Margaret's 
horse  in  the  stable  or  in  the  field?  " 

"  In  de  field,  sah." 

"  Then  see  how  quick  you  can  catch  him.  Oh,  here  's 
Uncle  Abram.  He  will  get  us  a  snack,  and  Mead  can 
go  with  you  to  catch  Sultan.  Be  off  this  instant." 

"  Yes,  sah;  we'll  be  back  wid  de  hoss  'fore  you's 
done  eatin',  sah." 

In  half  an  hour  the}'  were  mounted  and  off,  leaving 
Solomon  on  top  of  the  new  gate,  looking  after  them 
and  pulling  up  the  weights  and  pulleys  from  below, 
until  a  voice  behind  him  brought  him  with  sudden  fright 
to  the  ground. 

"  What  yer  doin',  }-er  lim'  o'  Satan,  meddlin'  wid 
dem  'versions  ?  Ef  I  eber  cotch  you  top  ob  dat  gate 
agin,  I  '11  give  you  sumfin  to  make  }~ou  'member  it ! 
Heah  's  de  whole  family  upsot,  an'  mebby  Miss  Marg'ret 
an'  yo'  mammy  drownded,  an'  yer  takes  de  kashun  to 
be  a  breaki n'  dat  gate." 

"  I  wah  n't  a  hurtin'  de  gate,  gran'daddy.  I  got  up 
dar  jes  to  see  how  fas'  Marse  Stan  an'  dat  hossifer 
gentleman  ride.  Den  I  thought  mebby  dey  went  froo 
in  sich  a  huny  dat  dey  mout  a  spiled  some  o'  yo'  fixin's, 
an'  I  was  lookin'  so  I  mout  done  tole  }"er." 

While  the  old  man  investigated  any  possible  injury 
that  might  have  befallen  his  invention,  Solomon  pru 
dently  retreated. 


78  BAB Y  RUE. 


CHAPTER  XI. 

THAT  he  is  gentil  that  doth  gentil  dedis. 

CHAUCER. 

AN  accident  to  their  light  wagon  had  delayed  the 
party  at  Castalar's  several  hours  after  the  time 
intended  for  the  start.  The  repairs  completed,  Margaret 
insisted  upon  immediate  departure.  To  the  entreaties 
of  the  entire  family  that  she  would  remain  another  day, 
she  answered,  — 

"I  cannot  stay.  My  husband  may  return  from  the 
Osage  to-day.  He  has  never  }'et  crossed  his  own  thresh 
old  without  the  welcome  of  his  wife  and  child.  You  will 
forgive  my  obstinacy.  I  must  go." 

Castalar  glanced  at  the  patient,  worn  face  of  his 
wife,  who,  without  another  word  of  remonstrance,  com 
menced  to  gather  up  the  little  packages  made  read}'  for 
the  travellers,  as  he  said,  "Then  we  must  hurry  jour 
going.  It  is  a  long  day's  drive,  and  now  late  for  a  start. 
I  will  see  }*ou  across  the  Canadian,  and  Stephen  will 
go  on  to  Bouie's  Hill  with  you.  An  outrider  is  always 
needed  in  the  bush." 

"No,  .you  shall  not  go,  —  neither  you  nor  Stephen. 
I  am  a  good  enough  frontierswoman  to  know  that  the 
herders  will  not  soon  recover  the  strayed  cattle  they 
reported  this  morning  without  your  assistance.  Oscar 
drives  well,  and  the  mules  are  gentle.  There  is  not  the 
slightest  danger,  and  I  know  the  way  perfectly.  We 
can  reach  the  Arkansas  River  before  sundown,  and  from 
there  home  is  not  an  hour's  drive." 

"  The  herders  do  need  me.    If  j-ou  will  accept  Stephen 


BOUIE'S  HILL.  79 


as  escort,  I  will  say  farewell  here.  Marie  would  imagine 
a  thousand  misadventures  to  }-ou  and  her  goddaughter 
if  the  '  gars '  did  not  go  to  bring  her  a  faithful  report  of 
your  safe  arrival  at  home." 

Adieux  were  said.  Castalar  rode  off  up  the  valle}*. 
Madame  Castalar,  her  daughter,  —  a  pale,  slight  child 
of  thirteen  years,  —  and  two  younger  children  stood  in 
the  doorway  of  the  substantial  log  house,  watching  the 
wagon  and  its  bo3~-escort  down  the  valley  until  they 
passed  through  an  opening  in  the  hills  and  were  lost  to 
view. 

Two  hours  brought  the  part}'  to  the  ford  of  the  Cana 
dian.  After  leaving  "  Castalar's  Valley  "  they  had  grad 
ually  ascended  the  rocky  divide  that  separates  the  head 
waters  of  the  San  Bois  from  the  Canadian.  To  the 
bank  of  the  latter  the  descent  was  abrupt,  down  shelv 
ing,  sandy  inclines,  covered  in  patches  with  broad-leaved 
cactus  and  prickly  pear.  Below  the  ford,  the  shelving 
bank,  with  its  strata  of  colored  clay,  inclosed  in  a  sweep 
ing  curve  a  little  stretch  of  alluvial  soil,  covered  with  a 
dense  cane-brake  that  grew  to  the  water's  edge.  Above 
the  ford  the  bank  was  steep,  its  ridges  ending  at  the 
base  of  a  lofty  chain  of  broken1  hills,  presenting  an  alter 
nation  of  terraces  and  cliffs  covered  with  scrub-oak  and 
stunted  pine.  On  the  opposite  side  of  the  river,  which 
was  nearl)-  one  quarter  of  a  mile  wide,  the  trail  wound 
'upward  through  tangled  thickets  to  a  ridge  five  or  six 
hundred  feet  in  height,  covered  with  3Tellow  pine  and 
fragrant  red  cedar,  that  gradually  dipped  in  broken 
swells,  inclosing  lakelike  little  prairies  of  wavy  blue 
grass,  to  the  valley  of  the  Arkansas. 

On  the  divide  above  the  ford  Oscar  had  stopped  to 
breathe  his  mules  and  lock  the  wheels  of  the  wagon. 
Stephen,  a  handsome  bo}'  of  sixteen,  was  on  a  mettle 
some  mustang  that  he  managed  with  the  ease  and  grace 
of  a  Comanche.  Unfortunately  in  his  curvettings  around 
the  wagon,  whilst  talking  to  Margaret  and  trying  to 
catch  the  attention  of  Baby  Rue,  he  had  disturbed  a 
hungry  hornet.  The  winged  warrior  struck  the  mustang 
fairly  between  the  e}-es,  and  the  animal,  wild  with  fright 


80  BABY  RUE. 


and  pain,  executed  a  series  of  leaps  that  would  have  un 
horsed  the  best  rider  of  the  most  famous  cavalry  school. 
But  the  spirited  young  Franco- American  had  learned  the 
manege  in  the  wide  arena  of  the  prairie  under  a  Comanche 
tutor.  "Bucking"  was  to  him  a  familiar  experience. 
Mustang  and  metifweve  fairly  matched.  Moreover,  the 
boy  had  spectators  before  whom  he  felt  failure  would  be 
disgrace.  What  boy  of  sixteen  could  bear  failure  in  the 
presence  of  women  and  servants  ?  Now  a  man  might 
understand  the  odds  against  him,  but  these  inferior  peo 
ple  would  only  know  the  fact  of  defeat.  Then  add  to 
the .  feeling  of  the  ordinary  boy  the  conceit  of  Young 
France,  the  deeper  pride  of  the  Indian  who  feels  the 
blood  of  a  chief  in  his  veins.  As  we  said,  in  a  mere 
physical  contest  mustang  and  metifwere  fairly  matched. 
Add  the  mental  process  and  the  moral  result  of  such 
factors  as  pride  of  race"  and  boyish  conceit,  and  you  will 
see  that  our  statement  was  in  a  measure  incorrect :  the 
mustang  was  handicapped,  the  overweight  told.  Through 
vault  and  demi-vault,  despite  filing  heels  that  struck  out 
like  a  lightning  flash  and  then  gathered  as  rapidly  in  a 
game  of  "  all  fours,"  the  bo}'  stuck.  The  mustang  was 
conquered  in  one  point :  he  could  not  unhorse  the 
rider,  who,  in  the  ease  and  grace  with  which  he  swayed 
to  eveiy  movement,  proved  that  out  in  the  forest  and 
the  plains,  where  gloom}"  depths  and  arid  stretches  repel 
civilization,  there  is  a  more  splendid  centaur  than  the 
fabled  monster  of  the  Greeks,  —  a  centaur  which  is  the 
perfect  unity  of  two  distinct  organizations  controlled  by 
a  will  that  executes  its  mandates  with  the  iron  hand  of 
the  autocrat  whose  throne  is  the  saddle.  The  mustang's 
final  effort  was  expended  in  a  rushing  gallop  toward 
home,  and  before  the  boy  could  force  an  acknowledg 
ment  of  submission  and  change  his  course,  the  wagon 
was  down  the  divide  and  at  the  river  bank. 

Rue  was  fretful  and  impatient.  Margaret,  already 
anxious  to  go  on,  ordered  Oscar  to  cross  without  wait 
ing  for  Stephen.  Oscar  called  his  mistress's  attention  to 
the  deep  reddish-chocolate  color  of  the  water,  adding,  — 

"I  don't  like  the  look  o'  the  river  nohow.     It's  a 


BOUIE'S  HILL.  8 1 


heap  fuller  'n  't  was  las'  week.  Them  cane-brakes  was 
clar  out  o'  the  water  when  we  crossed  las'  week.  Sandy- 
bottomed  rivers  wash  into  holes  mighty  quick,  an'  thar  's 
always  a  mighty  deep  one  out  thar  jes'  t'  other  side  o'  the 
big  san'bar.  Can't  see  the  san'bar  now,  it's  all  cov 
ered.  I  think,  Miss  Marg'ret,  you  better  let  me  go. 
over  an'  try  the  ford  on  one  o'  the  mules.  It's  a  heap 
safer." 

"  No,  there  is  no  danger ;  the  river  is  always  a  muddy 
red.  It  is  too  late  in  the  season  for  a  freshet.  Drive 
on." 

As  they  entered  the  water  a  gaunt,  haggard  man,  bare 
headed,  with  long,  matted  hair  and  beard,  and  clad  in 
a  few  loose  rags,  came  out  of  the  cane-brake  about  a 
hundred  yards  below  the  ford,  shouting  to  them.  Sara 
screamed.  Margaret,  looking  back  hastily,  saw  the  man 
running  toward  them  followed  by  two  others,  one  a 
nearly  naked  Indian.  She  called  to  Oscar,  — 

"Drive  on!     Quick!" 

Oscar  drove  steadily,  although  he  knew  the  river  was 
much  above  its  usual  level.  One  hundred  feet  from  the 
shore  was  the  now  hidden  sandbar.  Beyond  that  the 
current  swept  by  at  its  greatest  depth.  When  they 
gained  the  shallow  water  of  the  sandbar,  Margaret 
again  looked  back.  The  man  with  the  long,  tawn}r 
beard  was  in  the  water,  following  the  wagon  ;  the  other, 
a  slow-motioned  giant,  had  thrown  his  leggings  and 
moccasins  on  the  bank  and  was  leisure!}7  wading  into 
the  river.  The  Indian  had  disappeared.  Margaret 
called  out,  — 

' '  Faster !     Drive  faster !  " 

Oscar  struck  the  mules  ;  they  sprang  forward  into  deep 
water,  slipped,  struggled  an  instant  to  gain  a  foothold, 
and  then  fell,  tangled  hopelessly  in  the  harness,  rocking 
the  light  wagon  from  side  to  side  in  their  efforts  to  get 
loose.  Without  hesitation,  although  he  could  not  swim, 
Oscar  did  the  one  thing  he  thought  would  save  the  lives 
intrusted  to  his  care  :  he  climbed  over  the  dashboard 
with  an  open  pocket-knife  in  his  hand,  to  cut  the  drown 
ing  animals  loose  from  the  wagon.  Sara's  screams  rang 

6 


82  BABY  RUE. 


over  the  water ;  whilst  Margaret  in  speechless  agony 
held  her  baby  to  her  heart. 

At  this  moment  a  hand  was  laid  on  the  wagon,  and  the 
firm  hold  steadied  its  swaying.  As  Margaret  turned 
her  head,  a  pair  of  kindl_y,  reddish-brown  eyes  looked 
into  hers.  The  face  to  which  they  belonged  had  a  suf 
fering,  half-starved,  weather-beaten  look,  and  water  was 
dripping  from  the  tangles  of  hair  and  beard.  The  owner 
of  all  these  called  to  his  companion,  — 

"  Hillo,  Pike !  Swim  'round  in  front  thar  and  holp 
the  nigger  get  them  mules  loose.  Let  'em  go ;  you 
can't  save  'em  nohow.  If  the  boy  can't  swim,  pull  him 
out ;  then  come  back.  I  '11  steadjr  this  steamer  till  you 
get  here.  Maybe  we  can  get  her  off  the  wheels  and  pull 
her  on  the  bar  thar." 

Then  he  added,  talking  to  Margaret,  in  a  voice  with  hon 
est  intonations  a  child  or  an  animal  would  have  trusted, 
"Don't  be  skeered.  You  didn't  hear  me  time  'nough 
to  stop.  You  see  I  wah  n't  a-comin'  out  of  the  cane- 
brake  if  I  could  a-holped  it.  I  thought  maybe  you  'd  see 
for  j'ourselves  the  river  was  on  a  bust ;  but  you  did  n't. 
'T  was  my  fault  not  tellin'  you  sooner ;  so  3*ou  see  we 
are  boun'  to  get  you  out  of  this.  On'y  don't  be  skeered 
at  us.  We  are  white  men  —  leastwise  two  on  us  —  and 
we  've  got  mothers  —  or  if  we  ain't  now,  we  had  —  and 
you  and  that  little  baby 's  just  as  safe  with  us  as  }*ou 
would  be  in  heaven.  We  could  n't  let  you  two  drown, 
so  be  and  we  all  went  down.  The  Delawar'  too,  if  he 
is  a  Injin,  he's  got  a  white  man's  heart.  He's  gone 
down  the  river  thar,  whar  we  hid  the  canoe,  and  he'll 
be  here  with  it  direckly.  Don't  be  skeered ;  you  look 
a  good  plucky  one,  and  so  does  the  baby." 

For  Rue  had  reached  out  her  little  hand,  and  pulled 
at  the  tangled  beard,  laughing  as  she  did  in  her  romps 
with  her  father. 

Margaret  saw  tears  in  the  reddish-brown  eyes,  as  the 
baby  kept  up  her  play  and  laughed  and  crowed,  as  she 
would  with  a  shaggy  Newfoundland.  The  man  shook 
the  water  from  one  rough,  hairy  hand,  and  caught  the 
dimpled  little  fist  and  hid  it  for  an  instant  in  the  billowy 


BOUIE^S  HILL.  83 


wave  of  his  tawny  beard ;  and  a  new  light  shone  on  the 
haggard  face  as  he  kissed  the  baby  fingers. 

"Pike"  literally  followed  instructions.  He  had  cut 
the  mules  loose  from  the  wagon  ;  fished  out  Oscar,  who 
was  half  drowned  by  the  struggle  and  the  water  he  had 
swallowed ;  towed  him  ashore,  and  waded  back  to  the 
bar,  from  which  a  few  powerful  strokes  brought  him  to 
the  still  floating  vehicle. 

The  two  men  now  united  their  strength  to  tow  it  into 
shallow  water,  but  the  current  was  too  rapid.  All  they 
could  do  was  to  keep  it  steady  and  afloat.  Again  the 
leader  spoke  to  Margaret. 

"I  don't  know  what  keeps  the  Delawar*  and  the 
canoe  ;  but  you  give  me  the  baby,  marm,  and  then  climb 
out  here  and  hold  on  close  by  me  till  Pike  can  swim 
round  to  }*ou.  Don't  cotch  hold  on  him,  but  jus'  let  him 
take  3~ou  out :  he  '11  do  it  —  he 's  a  powerful  strong  sure 
swimmer.  The  wagon-bed  will  float  the  nigger  woman 
till  we  get  3*ou  out  and  come  back  for  her." 

At  this  proposal  Sara  commenced  afresh. 

"Good  Godamity,  Miss  Marg'ret,  doant  leave  me 
heah  !  Lemme  go  wid  }~er !  " 

Margaret  quietly  kissed  Rue,  and  put  her  in  the  man's 
arms.  The  baby,  thinking  this  a  part  of  the  frolic, 
clutched » the  shaggy  head,  and  screamed  her  delight. 
For  the  first  time  Margaret  spoke  to  the  man. 

"  Take  my  little  daughter  to  Oscar.  God  bless  you 
for  coming  to  us !  I  will  wait  with  Sara  until  you  get 
back." 

"I'll  come,  marm;  don't  be  skeered.  The  baby's 
all  right.  So  holp  me  God,  she  and  you  can  trust  Bob 
Stearns ! " 

' '  I  know  it.  I  trust  you  and  the  mercy  of  our  Heavenly 
Father." 

The  baby,  dripping  wet,  but  still  laughing,  was  placed 
in  Oscar's  arms  just  as  the  now  completely  conquered 
mustang  came  down  the  divide.  One  look  revealed  to 
Stephen  the  accident.  He  was  off  his  horse,  threw  off 
coat  and  boots,  and  was  in  the  water  as  Bob  Stearns 
reached  the  bar.  Again  that  stout-hearted  fellow  was 


84  BABY  RUE. 

in  the  deep  water,  just  in  time  ;  for  the  wagon,  caught 
by  the  swift-increasing  current,  turned  on  its  side  as  he 
reached  it,  and  drew  Margaret  out.  Then  the  slower 
Pike  loosened  the  vise-like  grip  he  had  kept  of  the  front 
boards,  and,  with  a  water-dog's  dip  and  plunge,  brought 
up  Sara,  who  was  fortunately  too  limp  to  resist  or  em 
barrass  him.  He  swam  to  the  bar  and  placed  her  firmly 
on  her  feet,  and  then  turned  to  look  for  his  comrade. 
What  he  saw  brought  out  all  the  latent  energy  of  the 
giant.  His  comrade,  although  near  shallow  water,  was 
slowly  sinking,  overweighted,  exhausted.  Notwith 
standing  the  most  desperate  efforts,  he  was  going  down. 
Margaret,  understanding  how  she  endangered  her  would- 
be  deliverer,  clasped  her  hands  as  she  broke  from  him 
with  a  murmured  pra}Ter,  — 

"  My  baby  —  my  husband  —  God  bless  —  "  and  was 
swept  under  the  muddy  current. 

Stephen  and  Pike  reached  the  fatal  spot  at  the  same 
moment.  Both  dived — came  up  —  dived  again.  This 
time  they  won  salvage  from  the  waters.  Pike  had  tan 
gled  his  hand  in  Margaret's  brown  hair,  whilst  Stephen 
had  clutched  the  tawny  mane  of  Bob  Stearns.  Pike 
swam  ashore  with  his  burden,  and  turned  to  meet 
Stephen  and  the  Delaware  pushing  before  them  the 
canoe  which  held  the  apparently  lifeless  remains  of  his 
comrade. 


BOUIE'S  HILL.  85 


CHAPTER  XII. 

HE  had  got  a  hurt 
0'  th*  inside,  of  a  deadlier  sort. 

BTTTLER. 

AT  the  moment  Baby  Rue  was  placed  bj~  Bob  Stearns 
in  Oscar's  arms,  Leszinksky  and  Captain  Moore 
were  riding  rapidly  down  the  trail  which  wound  in  re 
verse  coils  from  the  top  of  the  ridge  on  the  opposite 
side  of  the  Canadian  to  the  bank.  On  a  little  plateau 
overlooking  the  river,  Captain  Moore  halted  long  enough 
to  take  his  field-glasses  from  their  case  and  inspect  the 
stream.  Seeing  Oscar  with  the  child  in  his  arms  by  the 
river  side,  and  Stephen  dismounting  from  his  mustang, 
he  said,  — 

"It's  all  right.  They  are  on  the  other  side,  but  cer 
tainly  not  going  to  try  the  ford." 

Mechanically  he  handed  the  glasses  to  Leszinksky, 
and  awaited.  Suddenly  Leszinksky  dropped  the  glasses, 
with  a  quickly  exclaimed  "God  save  my  wife!"  and 
rode  off  at  Sultan's  best  speed.  Captain  Ben,  rather 
dazed  at  the  pra}rer  and  the  action,  dismounted,  picked 
up  his  glasses,  and  from  his  recovered  seat  in  the  saddle 
again  examined  the  shore  and  the  river.  Leszinksky 
had  seen  the  wagon  as  it  upset,  and,  as  the  curtains 
were  up,  saw  that  Margaret  and  Sara  were  in  it.  Cap 
tain  Moore  looked  as  Pike  placed  Sara  on  her  feet  in 
the  shallows  of  the  sandbar,  at  the  instant  Bob  Stearns 
and  his  burden  went  under. 

Never  had  the  spurs  of  the  bold  dragoon  raked  so 
pitilessly  the  flanks  of  his  good  horse.  With  a  mighty 
oath  (I  am  sorry  to  record  it)  and  a  yell  that  was  half 


86  BABY  RUE. 

dismay,  half  encouragement  to  his  comrade,  he  came 
thundering  down  the  bank. 

Leszinksky,  alread}'  in  the  river,  was  stemming  the 
heavy  current  as  Pike  waded  out  with  his  senseless  bur 
den  ;  and  Stephen  and  the  Delaware,  who  had  arrived 
just  in  time  to  pull  into  the  canoe  the  heavy  weight  of  Bob 
Stearns,  pushed  and  paddled  ashore.  Sultan  clam 
bered  up  safely  with  his  rider,  a  few  minutes  after  Pike 
had  laid  Margaret  down  beside  her  baby,  on  a  shaded 
spot  high  up  the  bank.  Sara,  completely  overcome 
with  fright,  was  in  violent  hysterics ;  while  Oscar,  in 
speechless  agony,  knelt  by  his  mistress,  wiping  the 
muddy  stains  from  her  fair  face.  As  his  master  arrived, 
he  looked  up,  and  moaned,  — 

"O  Marse  Stan,  Marse  Stan,  God  has  took  back 
his  angel !  They  did  ah1  they  could,  them  poor  men 
thar,  but  they  could  n't  save  her  for  us.  O  Marse 
Stan,  we 's  on'y  got  her  chile  lef ' !  "  And  the  poor  fel 
low  burst  into  a  storm  of  sobs  as  he  saw  the  grief-stricken 
face  that  bent  over  Margaret. 

The  3'oung  wife  was  tying  with  her  hands  clasped  over 
her  breast,  as  she  had  gone  down  in  that  supreme 
effort  to  liberate  her  rescuer.  The  sweet  face,  lit  by  the 
slanting  rays  of  the  descending  sun,  was  of  a  death 
like  pallor.  The  blue  eyes,  partly  open  under  violet 
lids,  had  lost  their  light.  The  white  lips  were  closed, 
and  ashen  shadows  had  gathered  around  the  mouth. 

Into  this  group  on  the  bank  strode  Captain  Ben.  He 
had  had  a  hard  fight  with  the  rising  waters.  Accoutred 
as  he  was,  he  had  plunged  in,  and,  when  his  good  steed 
was  about  to  go  under,  had  slipped  from  the  saddle ; 
and  the  horse,  relieved  of  the  overweight,  swam  easily ; 
but  his  own  heavy  cavahy-boots  would  have  taken  Cap 
tain  Ben  to  the  bottom,  had  he  not  held  to  his  horse's 
tail,  and  so  been  towed  ashore.  Fortunately  for  the 
sufferers  to  whom  he  arrived,  his  helpfulness  in  disaster 
was  a  quality  to  be  counted  on.  Danger  and  reverse 
brought  him  to  his  best.  The  careless,  gay  dragoon  of 
the  garrison  had  a  graver  side,  — a  cool,  collected,  reso 
lute  side,  — to  front  danger  or  mischance.-  After  shak- 


BOUIE'S  HILL.  87 


ing  himself  like  a  water-spaniel,  he  knelt  b}r  Margaret, 
and  slid  one  broad,  strong  hand  under  her  shoulders, 
and  pressed  firmly  the  pulseless  chest  with  the  other ; 
then  spoke  cheerily  :  — 

"She's  not  drowned:  she  fainted  before  sinking. 
Run,  Oscar,  and  look  in  my  saddle-pocket,  and  bring 
the  flask  you  will  find.  Don't  be  unmanned,  Stan: 
she  '11  get  over  it ;  there  is  no  water  in  the  lungs.  Here, 
Oscar,  give  me  the  flask.  Get  .her  feet  bare,  Stan,  and 
rub  them  with  the  brandy." 

All  the  time  he  was  rubbing  the  cold  hands  and  bath 
ing  the  pale  face  with  a  touch  that  was  as  gentle  as  a 
woman's.  A  feeble  pulsation  was  soon  perceptible ; 
then  long-drawn,  pained  sighs  told  the  suffering  that 
came  with  resuscitation.  In  twenty  minutes  more  they 
knew  she  would  live.  Then,  with  a  final  administer 
ing  of  his  favorite  remedy,  Captain  Ben  left  her 
lying  in  her  husband's  lap  whilst  he  looked  after  the 
others.  Stephen  was  soon  mounted  on  Sultan,  and 
started  to  the  ranch  for  help.  (The  mustang  had 
escaped  for  home  the  moment  his  rider  dismounted.) 
Captain  Ben's  orders  to  Stephen  were  :  — 

"  Ride  like  the  devil !  Bring  back  dry  clothing  and 
any  conveyance  }*ou  can  get  the  quickest,  for  Mrs.  Les- 
zinksky  must  be  out  of  these  wet  things  before  the 
evening  chills  her ;  and  don't  fail  to  bring  whiskey 
enough  for  all  these  water-logged  people.  How  soon 
can  you  get  back  ?  " 

"  As  soon  as  zis  horse  he  can  run  ten  mile,  I  shall  at 
home  be,  mon  capitaine.  It  will  take  ten  mineits  to 
give  ze  orders  and  saddle  1'  Empereur ;  he  will  me  bring 
back  me  in  twenty  mineits  more  wiz  ze  whiskey  and 
clozing  for  Madame  Leszinksky  and  ze  bebe." 

"  Good  !  Give  Sultan  the  spurs.  I  shall  expect  you 
in  an  hour." 

"  I  will  here  be,  mon  capitaine,  if  it  kills  two 
horse." 

Captain  Ben  now  turned  to  where  the  gigantic  Pike 
worked,  in  concert  with  the  Delaware,  for  the  restora 
tion  of  their  well-nigh-drowned  comrade.  They  had 


88  BABY  RUE. 


turned  over  the  canoe,  and  laid  the  body  face  downward 
across  it.  The  Delaware  rolled  it  from  side  to  side, 
whilst  Pike  worked  the  lifeless  arms  like  pump-handles 
above  the  limp  head,  great  tears  rolling  down  the  giant's 
cheeks  and  washing  furrows  in  the  stains  left  by  the 
muddy  river,  as  his  grief  found  expression  in  porpoise- 
like  sighs,  that  seemed  blown  from  the  vent  of  a  tired 
whale.  The  captain  aided,  slightly  changing  the  treat 
ment,  —  simulating  respiration,  pressing  the  lungs  into 
regular  rises  and  falls,  blowing  into  the  nostrils,  and, 
at  last  when  a  feeble  pulsation  came,  giving  all  that 
remained  of  his  panacea  in  small  doses  that  acted  like 
magic.  When  Stephen  returned  the  drowned  man  was 
sitting  on  the  canoe,  looking  with  unqualified  regret  at 
the  flask  he  had  just  emptied  of  its  last  drops.  His  face 
brightened  when  the  newly-arrived  supplies  were  un 
packed,  and  Captain  Ben  approached  with  a  leathern 
drinking-cup  full  of  whiske}-,  although  the  words  that 
accompanied  the  gift  somewhat  damped  his  delight :  — 

"  Here,  Stearns.  I  see  you  have  n't  given  up  the  old 
habit  that  brought  you  to*  grief  before  you  deserted. 
There 's  some  excuse  for  your  cups  now.  You  have 
swallowed  more  water  to-day  than  you  would  like  to 
drink  in  a  six-months'  march  over  the  plains." 

Bob  hesitated  an  instant ;  then,  thinking  that  words 
would  keep  longer  than  unbottled  whiskey,  emptied  the 
cup  first,  and  replied :  "  I  see  you  know  me,  Capt'n,  and 
I  ain't  sorry  for  it.  What  with  the  Pawnees  robbing  on 
us,  and  dodging  soldiers  and  white  men  from  the  settle 
ments,  we  've  had  dogs'  lives  on  the  plains.  It  was  all  my 
doin's,  —  our  desertin'.  You  know  Pike  always  sot  great 
store  by  me  :  he  would  n't  let  me  go  by  myself.  We  ain't 
had  but  one  piece  of  luck  sence  we  left,  and  that  was 
gittin'  Black  Beaver  here  outen  the  clutches  of  a  party  of 
Navahos  who  was  about  to  brile  him  standin'.  I  s'pose 
you'll  take  us  to  the  fort.  Now,  jus'  you  say  what  you 
can  for  Pike  ;  he  wah  n't  to  blame  nohow.  I  'd  ruther 
be  shot  than  be  in  the  garrison  with  Capt'n  Hartley." 

Oscar,  who  was  listening,  started  forward,  and  then 
suddenly  stopped ;  whilst  Captain  Ben  said :  — 


BOUIE'S  HILL.  89 

"  Captain  Hartley  has  resigned.  I  will  have  to  take 
you  to  the  fort.  But  you  have  behaved  like  a  brave 
man  to-day.  You  would  have  made  your  way  to  the 
Mississippi  safely,  if  }-ou  had  n't  come  out  of  that  cane- 
brake  to  save  the  wife  and  child  of  an  officer.  By  God, 
they  shall  not  shoot  3*ou,  if  I  can  help  it !  Give  me 
j-our  word  that  you  will  go  to  the  fort,  and  I  will  leave 
you  free  to  go  without  arrest.  It  will  be  better  for 

you." 

"Yes,  Capt'n,  I '11  go.  I  was  a-goin'  to  the  Missis- 
sipp',  and  home  to  Missoury  ;  but  I  'd  a-alwa}-s  felt  mean 
hidin'  about  like  a  thief  or  a  Pawnee.  I  s'pose  I  '11  have 
to  take  the  chances  o'f  shootin'." 

"  You  are  not  shot  }'et,  and  after  what  }"ou  've  done 
to-day,  't  will  be  damned  hard  to  get  a  court-martial 
that  won't  let  you  off  easy.  Lieutenant  Leszinksky, 
whose  wife  and  child  you  have  saved,  belongs  -to 
'  Ours.' " 

Captain  M'oore  walked  back  to  meet  Margaret,  who, 
with  dry  clothing  on,  now  came  with  her  husband  from 
her  dressing-closet  among  the  scrub-pines.  Pike  and 
the  Indian  had  gone  down  the  river  to  try  and  secure 
the  wagon,  which  was  lodged  against  the  branches  of 
an  overhanging  willow.  Oscar  hesitated  an  instant,  then 
ran  to  Stephen's  supplies,  and  came  back  to  Bob  with 
bread  and  meat.  Bob  thanked  him,  and  ate  with  the 
appetite  of  a  half-starved  plainsman.  After  he  had 
finished,  seeing  that  Oscar  still  waited,  Bob  asked  :  — 

' '  Have  you  got  any  more  of  that  whiskey  ?  My 
bowels  is  powerful  watery  yet." 

Oscar  ran  to  the  captain,  and  came  back  with  the  cup 
half  full,  saying  apologeticalh*,  "  Captain  Moore  say 
't  ain't  safe  to  give  you  too  much,  an'  you  jes  drownded  ; 
but  I  '11  try  an'  get  you  some  more  after  while.  An'  I 
jes  wanted  to  say  to  you,  if  thar  's  anything  Oscar  (that 's 
me)  kin  do  fur  you,  he  '11  do  it.  If  }rou  don't  want  to 
go  to  the  fort,  you  need  n't.  If  3-011  has  cause  to  hate 
Captain  Hartley,  so  has  Oscar.  An'  to-day  you  brought 
us  back  the  angel  o'  the  fam'ly  when  she  had  started 
for  heaven.  If  you  ain't  no  kashuu  to  go  to  the  fort, 


QO  BABY  RUE. 


don't  go.  We  's  all  got  to  go  back  to  Marse  Caslar's  ; 
but  Marse  Stephen  an'  me  will  fix  it  so  you  kin  go  your 
own  way  'fore  the  week  's  out." 

"  So  be  and  't  had  been  yesterday  you  'd  a-offered  to 
holp  us,  I  'd  a  been  glad  and  thankful ;  but  you  see  I  'm 
a  soldier,  if  I  did  desert,  and  I  've  jus  give  my  parole  to 
the  capt'n.  I  must  sta}-  here  now,  and  I  must  go  to 
the  fort  to-morrow.  I  '11  keep  my  word  to  the  capt'n. 
I  'd  like  to  be  with  the  regiment,  if  Capt'n  Hartley  's 
gone." 

"What  did  he  do  to  you?"  asked  Oscar,  with  the 
naive,  straightforward  manner  of  a  child. 

Bob's  face  grew  black  and  angry  ;  but  after  a  moment 
he  answered,  simply  :  "  He  bucked  and  gagged  me  the 
fust  time  I  was  drunk  when  he  commanded.  That 
wah  n't  so  much.  The  next  time  he  give, me  thirty-nine 
lashes  and  chained  me  by  the  thumbs  to  a  wagon  for 
a  two-days'  march.  You  can  see  the  marks  j-et ;  a 
piece  of  this  left  thumb  sloughed  off.  Pike  unchained 
me  when  he  see  it  had  cut  through  the  flesh,  and  he 
had  Pike  bucked  and  whipped.  Then  I  deserted." 
Oscar  drew  a  deep  breath. 

"  He  did  worse  fur  me.  Somehow,  when  I  think  of 
it,  I  know  I  '11  kill  him  yet.  Leastwise,  I  'm  sho  the 
Lord  '11  deliver  him  into  my  han'.  If  it  had  n't  a-been 
fur  Miss  Marg'ret,  I  'd  a-killed  him  that  day." 

The  negro  walked  away:  Leszinksky  was  coming. 
"  King  Stan  "  offered  his  hand  to  Bob,  saying,  "  I  owe 
you  a  debt  I  can  never  pay,  but  which  I  shall  never  for 
get.  Captain  Moore  has  told  me  your  troubles,  and  we 
hope  to  get  you  out  of  them  safely.  You  may  count 
on  all  we  can  do." 

"Thank  you,  Leftenant;  but  you  don't  owe  me 
nothin'  for  what  I  did  for  yo'  wife  and  that  little  baby. 
I  oughter  a-come  out  of  the  cane-brake  sooner,  and 
saved  them  a-gettin'  in.  I  mought  a-knowed  they 
would  n't  know  the  river  was  up.  Howsomever,  I  did 
my  best  arterwards,  and  I  'm  powerful  glad  they  're 
safe.  I  ain't  seen  a  little  child  like  that  sence  I  left 
Missoury.  If  my  wife  had  a- lived,  and  I  'd  a-had  a 


BOUIE'S  HILL. 


little  child  like  that  in  my  cabin,  I  would  n't  a-been  the 
worthless  cuss  I  am.  She  's  a  good,  plucky  one,  that 
little  one,  Leftenant;  and  that  nigger  ain't  fur  wrong 
when  he  calls  her  mother  a  angel.  When  she  give  me 
her  child,  and  said  she  trusted  her  te  me  and  God's 
mercy,  I  did  n't  know  what  God  mought  do,  but  so  be 
and  a  man  could  save  'em  both,  I  knowed  I  would." 


92  BABY  RUE. 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

To  be  weak  is  miserable, 
Doing  or  suffering. 

MILTON. 

MARGARET  was  ill  at  Castalar's  for  some  time  after 
the  accident.  Before  her  arrival  at  Bouie's  Hill, 
Bob  Stearns  and  Pike  had  been  tried,  sentenced,  and 
then  pardoned  "in  consideration  of  their  gallant  con 
duct  and  voluntary  return  to  the  regiment."  Black 
Beaver  was  enlisted  in  the  corps  of  scouts.  So  the  Les- 
zinksk}*'s  had  frequent  occasion  to  bring  to  their  home 
these  men,  whose  well-being  and  well-doing  had  for 
them  deep  personal  interest. 

The  Fourth  of  Jul}-,  Oscar  came  back  from  the  fort 
early  in  the  afternoon  with  some  things  needed  for  the 
dinner,  to  which  ah1  our  friends  were  invited,  and  this 
one  piece  of  news  :  — 

"I's  sorry,  Miss  Marg'ret,  to  have  to  tole  you,  but 
when  I  went  to  ~tole  Black  Beaver  an'  our  soljers  as 
you  'd  expect  'em  to  eat  thar  Fourth  out  heah,  I  foun' 
Marse  'Bob  Stearns  too  drunk  to  come.  Marse  Pike  an' 
the  Injin  has  to  stay  to  keep  him  outer  trouble.  They 
say  he 's  a  powerful  han'  to  quarrel  when  he 's  a-drinkin'. 
That 's  what's  always  gone  wrong  with  him.  If  he  can't 
get  no  fightin'  of  his  own,  he 's  sho  to  get  somebody 
else's.  Jes  now  at  the  fort  he  done  knocked  down 
Mike  O'Dowd,  'cause  he  was  disrespeckful  talkin'  'bout 
me  and  my  —  my  misfortshun." 

Either  Pike  and  Black  Beaver  had  drunk  too  much 
themselves  to  be  efficient  guards,  or  else  in  some  way 


BOUIE'S  HILL.  93 


Bob  flanked  his  friends.  Before  sundown  he  got  into  a 
"  free  fight,"  and  spent  the  night  in  the  guard-house, 
where,  the  next  morning,  by  some  process  known  only 
to  himself,  Oscar  furnished  him  a  comfortable  breakfast. 
The  jug  of  strong  coffee  had  its  effect,  for  when  released 
Bob  came  out  sober,  sorry,  and  ashamed  at  the  violation 
of  the  pledge  he  had  only  a  week  before  made  our  saint. 
The  certain  result,  if  left  to  himself,  would  have  been  a 
fresh  debauch.  Remorse  and  shame  go  against  a  man 
of  weak  will ;  and  poor  Bob's  good  resolutions  were  as 
yet  untwisted  flax,  powerless  to  resist  the  pull  of  habit. 
This  day  Bob  had  a  new  experience :  he  was  not  left 
undefended  to  the  fierce  thirst  that  had  hitherto  led  him, 
helpless  and  unnerved,  into  the  power  of  the  enemy  that 
was  spoiling  him  of  his  manhood.  A  friend  stood  in 
the  way  of  the  tempter.  A  peerless  Sir  Galahad,  all  the 
more  pitying  because  of  his  own  perfect  purit}',  waited 
at  the  guardhouse  door  to  save  him  from  a  fresh  assault, 
—  a  stainless  knight,  whose  heart  was  the  shrine  of  the 
Holy  Grail ;  for  in  it  burned  the  strong  love  of  human 
ity  that  had  taken  Jesus  of  Nazareth  into  the  haunts  of 
publicans  ajad  sinners. 

At  the  first  sight  of  Leszinksk}-,  Bob  recoiled,  and  then 
turned  the  other  way,  pulling  his  cap  low  over  his  eyes. 
A  kindly  hand  was  on  his  shoulder.  Though  at  first  he 
looked  down  abashed,  he  felt  the  e^yes  that  finally  drew 
his  own  and  held  them,  as  the  words  came  slowly  and 
with  a  sympathetic  intonation  that  seemed  to  the  rough 
soldier  a  voice  from  heaven'. 

"We  are  all  grieved  at  this  new  trouble,  Bob, — we 
who  love  you  and  who  owe  you  so  much.  But  for  you, 
I  should  have  neither  wife  nor  child.  Whenever  I  thank 
God  for  their  spared  lives  I  am  thanking  Him  for  }-our 
unselfish  courage,  for  the  manhood  that  is  in  you.  I 
do  not  think  }'ou  know  how  we  suffer  in  the  fall  of  a 
friend  we  fain  would  respect.  Any  stain  upon  you,  any 
failure  in  that  brave  nature  of  yours,  grieves  and  hurts 
the  family  you  saved.  It  also  shames  us  in  that  we  are 
so  heavily  your  debtors,  and  yet  cannot  defend  3-011  from 
the  evil  that  pursues  and  ruins  you.  You  must  come 


94  BABY  RUE. 


home  with  me.  I  have  waited  for  you,  and  my  wife  is 
waiting  for  us  both." 

"Please,  Leftenant,  I  can't  go  now.  I  ain't  fit.  I 
don't  want  to  see  her  nor  the  baby  jus'  now.  I  ain't 
wuth  the  trouble  you  've  done  took  a'ready." 

"  You  must  come,  Bob." 

"I'll  come  in  the  mornin',  sir;  I've  got  to  go  on 
duty,  sir,  this  evenin'." 

"  No,  that  is  arranged.  I  have  an  order  from  Cap 
tain  Moore.  You  are  to  stay  at  Bouie's  Hill  until  the 
company  changes  quarters." 

"Please  let  me  come  in  the  mornin',  sir.  I  don't 
want  to  go  thar  like  this." 

There  was  repentance  as  well  as  shame  in  the  e.yes 
that  looked  into  Leszinksky's  ;  but  the  evil  habit  clutched 
the  sensitive  nerves  until  they  quivered  with  longing 
for  the  poison  that  "  doth  mock  the  meat  it  feeds  on." 
The  poor  drunkard  felt  that  nothing  but  the  devil's  fluid 
could  quench  the  flame  of  remorse.  The  trinity  in  man 
was  disturbed :  mind  and  soul  had  succumbed  to  the 
bondage  of  the  flesh,  and  the  anguished  heart  would  fain 
have  sought  forgetfulness  of  its  pangs  in  a  fresh  insen 
sibility  of  drink. 

"  I  dare  not  trust  j-ou,  Bob.  You  are  not  in  a  state 
to  resist  the  craving  that  is  even  now  upon  you." 

"No,  Leftenant,  I  ain't.  I  must  have  a  drink.  My 
nerves  is  a-shakin'  for  it.  If  you  '11  let  me  get  one,  sir, 
I'll  come." 

"  No :  come  with  me  now." 

Bob  followed.  At  the  doctor's  quarters  Leszinksky 
stopped,  and  bade  the  soldier  come  in.  Leaving  him  in 
the  office,  Leszinksky  sought  the  doctor  in  his  private 
room. 

"  Doctor,  I  have  brought  Stearns  to  see  you  before 
taking  him  to  Bouie's  Hill.  He  is  shaky  and  nervous, 
and  begs  for  a  drink.  What  shall  I  do  ?  " 

"  Give  him  one.  Without  it,  after  such  a  debauch, 
he  risks  delirium  tremens." 

"  Would  not  that  be  feeding  the  appetite  for  alcohol? 
Captain  Moore  tells  me  that  Stearns  is  powerless  to  re- 


BOUIE'S  HILL.  95 


sist  this  mania  after  the  first  drink.  Have  you  no  tonic 
that  will  strengthen  the  nervous  system  sufficiently  to 
permit  a  short  stop  ?  " 

"  I  can  give  opiates,  which  are  dangerous  ;  or  emetics, 
that  will  relieve  the  strain  on  the  nerves,  but  then  the 
penalt}*  may  come  upon  the  stomach  and  bowels.  I  had 
'  one  case  that  resulted  in  a  fatal  hemorrhage." 

"  Is  medical  skill,  then,  powerless  to  repair  the  phys 
ical  derangement  that  follows  debauch  ?  " 

"  It  has  as  yet  found  no  antidote  to  the  subtle  poison 
of  alcohol,  —  a  poison  that  thoroughly  impregnates  the 
brain,  breeding  the  most  fierce  and  craving  desire  for 
reindulgence,  whilst  -it  stupefies  the  moral  quality  of 
resistance  to  evil." 

"There  must  be  a  physical  cure  for  its  physical  ef 
fects.  Nature  is  too  richly  endowed  by  the  All-Father 
to  fail  where  failure  wrecks  so  many  of  her  children." 

"  I  trust  the  discovery  will  reward  a  greater  than 
Herve}'.  There  is  no  puzzle  to  medical  science  like  this 
presented  by  the  drunkard.  Year  after  year  men  die 
by  thousands,  poisoned  by  alcohol.  Prisons  are  filled 
with  criminals  whom  law  has  held  to  account,  although 
their  crimes  were  committed  under  the  sway  of  the  most 
fatal  and  uncontrollable  insanity  known  to  physicians  : 
and  this  very  poisoning,  which  alwa}'S  ends  in  death 
(sometimes  long  delayed,  but  then  more  terrible  in  suf 
fering),  madness,  or  idiocy  is  in  a  measure  legalized. 
The  sale  of  alcoholic  drinks  is  unrestrained  ;  the  profits 
enormous :  human  vampires  fatten  on  the  blood  of  its 
victims.  Law,  which  in  England  condemned  the  suicide, 
and  in  this  country  punishes  the  vendor  who  sells  him 
quick  oblivion  of  the  ills  of  life,  lets  the  distiller  and 
trader  in  alcohol,  who  put  a  criminal  or  a  madman  in 
nearly  every  family  in  the  land,  go  unwhipt  of  justice." 

"  Then,  Doctor,  you  do  not  believe  in  the  moral  ac 
countability  of  the  drunkard?"  ' 

"  In  the  main,  no.  In  the  beginning  of  the  evil, 
society  is  responsible  for  the  custom  that  commends  a 
brain  poison  to  the  untainted  palates  of  the  young  ;  and 
then  society  is  again  responsible  for  the  condemnation 


96  BAB Y  RUE. 


of  the  victim  who  has  lost  all  will-power  to  resist  the 
destixxyer." 

' '  Then  there  is  no  hope  for  this  poor  fellow  to  whom 
I  owe  so  much,  and  for  whose  redemption  from  this 
slavery  to  hell-fire  I  would  give  all  that  a  man  ma}r  give 
to  save  a  friend  ?  " 

"  Yes  ;  there  is  always  hope  in  the  power  of  human 
love  and  human  s}rmpathy.  In  Stearns's  case  the  habit 
is  spasmodic.  There  are  intervals  for  patient  affection 
to  work  a  moral  cure.  Find  a  motive  for  regeneration 
stronger  than  the  physical  appetite,  and  his  case  is 
hopeful  Nothing  short  of  a  miracle  will  stop  the  regu 
lar  drinker,  —  and  miracles  do  not  occur  in  the  nineteenth 
century.  The  spasmodic  drunkard  can  cure  himself  if 
will  is  strengthened  by  an  unselfish  desire  to  save  from 
pain  and  suffering  some  one  dearer  than  self.  I  know 
of  nothing  else  that  will  insure  the  victory.  The  first 
difficulty  in  this  case  is  tiding  over  the  tendency  to 
delirium  tremens." 

"With  God's  help  I  shall  struggle  for  his  salvation 
point  by  point.  What  shall  I  do  first?" 

"Give  him  a  simple  but  nourishing  diet,  plenty  of 
milk,  constant  but  light  exercise  in  the  open  air.  If  he 
cannot  sleep  —  then  opiates :  but  still  keep  him  in  the 
air,  on  horseback  when  possible  ;  that  is  of  itself  a  nar 
cotic.  Above  a//,  give  him  a  motive  to  reform,  a  reason 
for  self-control.  I  fear  yon  will  find  that  }*ou  have  set 
yourself  a  Herculean  task." 

"  Doctor,  you  forget  what  I  owe  Stearns.  With  my 
great  debt  in  the  balance,  any  task  that  may  do  him  good 
will  seem  light.  Moreover,  I  feel  sure  of  help  from  the 
Father  who  watches  over  us  all." 

"Ah,  Leszinksky,  if  faith  were  contagious,  and  you 
could  infect  him  with  your  beliefs,  cure  would  be  cer 
tain  !  Even  I  am  ready  to  admit  that  such  '  faith  can 
remove  mountains,'  —  not  by  abstract  thought  and  wish, 
but  by  its  constant  striving  with  the  little  things,  with 
the  trivialities  of  a  very  material  universe." 

"  Doctor,  would  that  I  might  infect  you  by  so  much 
as  '  a  grain  of  mustard  seed.'  " 


BOUIE'S  HILL.  97 


"You  have,  in  so  far  that  I  believe  in  the  earnest 
ness  of  3*our  beliefs.  They  are  not  mere  beliefs,  barren 
of  effect;  they  are  something  more :  they  are  motives 
for  action  that  are  fruitful  of  result.  Yours  is  a  kindly 
infection.  I  hope  it  may  spread." 


98  BABY  RUE. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

FOR  years  the  Indians  clung  to  the  homes  of  their  forefathers, 
and  it  was  at  the  cost  of  much  blood  and  treasure  that  they  were 
finally  expelled  from  that  country. 

BRACKETT. 

LATE  in  the  fall  of  '45,  a  little  more  than  a  year 
after  the  accident  at  the  ford  of  the  Canadian,  the 
1st  Regiment  of  Dragoons  was  in  almost  constant  ser 
vice  in  the  Indian  Territory :  consequently  Leszinksky 
was  frequently  absent  from  Bouie's  Hill. 

The  dismounting  of  one  regiment  in  1843  —  through 
the  false  economy  of  the  lip-patriots  in  Congress,  who 
were  constantly  meddling  with  the  details  of  the  War 
Department  —  had  caused  such  a  weakening  of  the  little 
army  on  the  frontier  that  every  mounted  officer  and 
man  of  the  small  force  left  was  almost  continually  in 
the  saddle. 

The  vacillation  of  the  Government  in  its  Indian  affairs 
was  then,  as  now,  the  curse  of  the  savage  as  well  as 
of  the  frontiersman.  Its  revocation  and  modification 
of  treaties  which  had  been  signed  as  final  adjustment  of 
real  grievances ;  its  constant  changes  of  policy  from 
the  tyrannj"  of  the  autocrat  to  the  subservience  of  the 
trader;  the  causeless  arrest  and  equally  causeless  release 
of  friendly  chiefs,  — to  say  it  in  the  very  mildest  form, 
seemed  like  treachery.  Naturally,  the  savage  became 
exasperated  and  distrustful.  The  entire  history  of  the 
Seminole  War,  and  the  removal  of  the  feeble  remnant 
of  the  broken  tribes  across  the  Mississippi,  was  a  dis 
grace  to  the  nation,  —  but  not  to  the  armj',  which  simply 
obeyed  orders,  after  its  wisest  and  bravest  officers  had 
remonstrated  in  vain  against  their  execution.  At  the 


BOUIE'S  HILL.  99 


close  of  a  campaign  in  which  the  Seminole  chiefs  had 
shown  courage,  endurance,  and  patriotism  that  Greece 
would  have  rewarded  with  monuments,  and  Rome  with 
civic  triumphs,  General  Jessup  thus  writes  to  the  Secre 
tary  of  War :  "In  regard  to  the  Seminoles,  we  have 
committed  the  error  of  attempting  to  remove  them  when 
their  lauds  were  not  ^required  for  agricultural  purposes  ; 
when  they  ivere  not  in  the  way  of  the  white  inhabitants. 
We  exhibit  in  our  present  contest  the  first  instance,  per 
haps,  since  the  commencement  of  authentic  histoiy,  of  a 
nation  employing  an  army  to  remove  a  band  of  savages 
from  one  wilderness  to  another.  As  a  soldier,  it  is  my 
duty,  I  am  aware,  -not  to  comment  upon  the  policy  of 
the  Government,  but  to  carry  it  out  in  accordance  with 
my  instructions.  I  have  endeavored  faithfully  to  do  so  ; 
but  the  prospect  of  terminating  the  war  is  anything  but 
flattering.  Unless  immediate  emigration  be  abandoned, 
it  will  continue  for  years  —  and  at  constantly  increasing 
expense.  Is  it  not,  then,  well  worth}'  the  consideration 
of  an  enlightened  government  whether  —  even  if  the 
wilderness  we  are  traversing  could  be  inhabited  by  the 
white  man,  which  is  not  the  fact  —  the  object  we  are 
contending  for  would  lie  worth  the  cost." 

To  this  the  Secretary  replied  that  the  Government 
desired  "  their  removal  or  extermination."  The  first  act 
of  obedience  to  this  order  was  an  invitation  to  a  friendly 
council.  Five  hundred  and  thirteen  Indians  accepted, 
hoping  for  peace  and  trusting  the  Government.  Colo 
nel  Twiggs  was  ordered  to  "  seize  the  whole  part}'." 
The  leading  chiefs  and  warriors  had  refused  to  come. 
Osceola,  Coacoochee,1  Hospetarke,  with  their  tribes,  and 
the  little  remnant  of  valiant  Mickasuckies  —  who  foot 
by  foot  had  defended  their  country  upon  the  Swa-a-nee 
from  the  time  of  the  landing  of  De  Soto,  —  had  learned 
to  distrust  such  invitations.  Osceola  and  Coacoochee 
had  been  taught  by  personal  experience  that  the  council- 
chamber  of  the  white  man  was  the  ante-chamber  of  a 
prison.  The  escape  of  the  latter  from  San  Augustine 
was  a  marvel  of  adroitness  and  courage. 
1  Co-a-coo-chee,  —  Wild  Cat. 


100  BABY  RUE. 


The  son  of  King  Philip,  exceedingly  handsome,  mild 
and  amiable  in  manner,  a  fearless  and  daring  leader, 
a  generous  friend  and  magnanimous  foe,  endowed  with 
great  personal  bravery,  —  Coacoochee  was  the  idol  of 
the  younger  warriors.  Although  determined  to  resist 
the  forcible  removal  of  his  people,  he  had  been  the  friend, 
and  would  have  been  the  all}',  of  the  white  man. 

The  seizure  and  forcible  emigration  of  these  Indians, 
whx>  had  hoped  b}r  prompt  submission  to  secure  for 
their  tribes  the  privilege  of  living  and  dying  in  their 
native  villages  in  the  Everglades,  and  the  enslave 
ment  of  their  allies,  had  the  immediate  effect  of  uniting 
for  common  defence  against  the  aggressors  the  younger 
chiefs  —  whose  petty  jealousies  had  fallen  before  the 
common  danger  —  and  Ar-pe-i-ka  (better  known  as 
"  Sam  Jones,  the  fisherman  ")5  who  had  sworn  eternal 
enmity  to  the  white  race. 

The  war  was  now  fierce  and  earnest;  the  newly 
established  trading  post  on  the  Caloosahatchie  was 
attacked,  and,  with  the  exception  of  Colonel  Harvey 
and  thirteen  men  who  escaped,  the  entire  garrison 
massacred.  In  revenge,  Harvey  organized  an  expedi 
tion  to  the  Everglades,  and  utterly  destroyed  the  tribe 
to  which  the  marauders  belonged.  Chikika,  the  chief, 
and  twelve  of  the  leading  men  of  the  tribe  were  left 
hanging  in  chains,  as  warnings  of  the  vengeance  of  the 
white  man.  The  warning  had  no  effect.  Coacoochee, 
with  two  hundred  warriors,  attacked  a  fort  garrisoned 
by  detachments  from  the  Second,  Third,  and  Fourth 
Artillery,  and  four  companies  of  dragoons.  The  bold 
ness  and  desperation  of  the  assault,  which  lasted  three 
hours,  obstinately  repeated  after  each  fresh  repulse, 
convinced  the  Government  of  the  determined  character 
of  the  leader  and  the  resolution  of  his  followers.  More 
troops  were  sent  to  Florida.  The  Indians,  heavily 
outnumbered,  retired  to  the  fastnesses  of  the  Big 
Cypress  Swamp,  the  desolate  islands  of  which  afforded 
refuge  to  the  women  and  children,  whilst  the  warriors  de 
fended,  from  the  hummocks,  its  outposts  ;  occasionally 
making  predatory  excursions  through  the  very  camps  of 
the  enemy  who  environed  them. 


BOUIE'S  HILL.  101 


The  Government  now  brought  fresh  allies  into  the 
field.  At  great  expense,  it  imported  bloodhounds 
from  Cuba,  bringing  with  them  their  Spanish  trainers. 
Atrocious  massacres  were  followed  by  atrocious  re 
prisals.  The  first  publicly  to  denounce  the  use  of 
bloodhounds  as  allies  was  Mr.  Wise,  of  Virginia,  who, 
in  the  House  of  Representatives,  made  the  inquiry : 
"  Whether  the  general  Government  had  been  a  partici 
pator  in  so  infamous  a  mode  of  exterminating  human 
creatures." 

More  determined  in  their  defence  grew  the  chiefs, 
who  made  their  last  desperate  stand  on  the  hummocks 
of  the  Big  Cypress.  These  hummocks,  surrounded  by 
water  from  two  to  three  feet  in  depth,  swarming  with 
reptiles,  were  made  more  impassable  by  fallen  trees  and 
brushwood.  The  need  that  had  made  warriors,  now 
taught  engineering.  Advance  after  advance  of  the 
United  States  troops  was  repelled.  But  numbers  and 
the  murderous  weapons  of  civilization  told.  Even  then 
success  was  delayed ;  so,  finally,  a  spy  was  found  who 
knew  the  secret  passes  ;  a  traitor  was  bought ;  a  path  to 
the  last  shelter  of  the  broken  tribes  was  open.  There  was 
a  final  assault,  a  terrible  butcher}-.  The  dragoons,  whose 
feet  and  hands  were  cut  and  bleeding,  by  the  sword- 
grass  (the  only  ally  of  the  Seminoles),  were  not  in  the 
humor  to  be  merciful :  they  were  men,  and  men  are 
cruel  when  resistance  has  enraged  them.  The  very 
officers,  whose  honest  opinions,  when  expressed  in 
private  discussion,  had  justified  the  Seminole  chiefs  in 
the  brave  defence  of  the  land  of  their  ancestors,  now 
cried,  "  Kill !  "  as  they  remembered  the  comrades  dead 
in  the  fatal  hummocks,  the  friends  shot  by  the  watch- 
fires  in  the  camp. 

The  Secretary  was  obe3'ed  :  they  were  nearly  "  exter 
minated"  There  was  to  be  peace  in  Florida,  and,  to 
secure  it,  her  children  were  to  be  torn  from  the  soil  or 
destroyed.  • 

A  captive  for  the  second  time,  loaded  with  chains,  in 
the  midst  of  enemies,  and  threatened  with  an  igno 
minious  death,  the  bearing  of  C'oacoochee  was  that  of  a 


102  BABY  RUE. 


king.  He  awaited  his  doom  with  composure  and 
dignity.  The  only  threat  that  drew  from  him  reply  was 
"  that  unless  he  submitted  to  the  will  of  the  Govern 
ment,  and  removed,  with  his  people,  peaceabty  across 
the  Mississippi,  every  captive  warrior  would  be  hung  to 
the  yards  of  the  vessel"  (broken  and  in  chains,  they 
had  not  dared  trust  to  imprisonment  on  shore),  "  for 
he  only  could  and  must  end  the  war."  His  reply  is  a 
complete  and  eloquent  epitome  of  the  relative  positions 
of  the  white  and  red  races  in  North  America.  It 
depicts  the  first  childlike  trust  of  the  Indian,  —  a  trust 
from  which  he  was  driven  by  repeated  and  cruel  wrongs 
—  and  how  his  just  resentment  of  outrage  was  made 
the  excuse  for  pillage  and  extermination. 

"I  was  once  a  boy,"  said  he,  in  subdued  tones; 
"  then  I  saw  the  white  man  afar  off.  I  hunted  in  these 
woods,  first  with  a  bow  and  arrow,  then  with  a  rifle.  I 
saw  the  white  man  and  was  told  he  was  my  enemy. 
He  said  he  was  my  friend.  He  gave  me  his  hand  in 
friendship.  I  took  it.  Whilst  taking  it,  he  had  a  snake 
in  the  other.  His  tongue  was  forked.  He  lied,  and 
stung  me.  I  could  not  shoot  him  as  I  would  a  wolf  or  a 
panther;  yet  like  these  he  came  upon  me.  Horses,  cattle, 
and  fields,  he  took  from  me.  He  abused  our  women 
and  children,  and  told  us  to  go  from  the  land.  I  asked 
but  for  a  small  piece  of  these  lands,  enough  to  plant 
and  to  live  upon,  far  south,  —  a  spot  where  I  could  lay 
the  ashes  of  my  kindred.  This  was  not  granted  me. 
I  was  put  in  prison.  I  escaped.  I  have  again  been 
taken.  You  have  brought  me  back.  I  am  here  —  in 
chains.  I  feel  the  irons  in  my  heart.  You  say  I  must 
end  the  war.  Look  at  these  irons.  Can  I  go  to  my 
warriors?  Coacoochee  chained!  No:  do  not  ask  me 
to  see  them.  I  never  wish  to  tread  upon  my  land 
unless  I  am  free." 

His  captor,  Colonel  Worth,  was  only  the  mouthpiece 
of  the  Government  when  he  made  the  chief  understand 
the  inevitable, — "  Submission  to  removal,  or  extermi 
nation."  The  Indian  was  then  being  taught  the  lesson 
so  often  repeated :  that  his  land  was  his  only  until  the 
white  man  was  ready  to  claim  it* 


EQUIPS  HILL.  •       103 


The  Seminoles  submitted.  The  remnant  that  had 
escaped  the  butchery  of  the  Big  Cypress  came  in 
voluntarily  when  they  heard  of  the  danger  which 
menaced  their  chief.  They  consented  to  emigrate. 
With  their  wrongs  rankling  in  their  hearts,  they  were 
removed  to  the  territor}*  west  of  the  line  of  military 
posts  that  guarded' the  Arkansas  frontier. 

The  1st  Dragoons,  who  had  fought  them  in  Florida, 
were  now  their  neighbors  at  Fort  Gibson.  So  were 
their  late  foes,  the  Creeks.  Forty  refugee  Creek  war 
riors  (whose  homes  had  attracted  the  greed  of  Georgia 
settlers)  had  fought  as  allies  of  the  Seminoles  and 
Mickasuckies  in  the  battle  of  the  Big  Cypress  ;  although 
there  was  'opposed  to  them  a  Creek  regiment,  whose 
major,  a  Creek  Indian,  had  graduated  at  West  Point. 
Surrounded  by  these  discordant  elements,  one  mounted 
regiment  of  dragoons,  three  companies  of  infantiy,  and 
a  small  detachment  of  artillery  were  to  keep  the  peace 
upon  a  long  line  of  frontier. 

As  stated  in  the  beginning  of  this  chapter,  in  the 
fall  of  1845,  officers  and  men  of  the  1st  Dragoons, 
stationed  at  Fort  Gibson,  were  almost  constantly  on 
scout.  True,  the  dismounted  Second  Regiment  had 
been  restored  to  that  acme  of  all  hope  to  a  cavahyman, 
—  a  seat  in  the  saddle ;  but  the  mutterings  of  war  on 
the  Mexican  border  had  compelled  a  gathering  of 
Taylor's  "  Army  of  Observation "  at  Corpus  Christi, 
in  readiness  for  any  contingency.  The  reserves  at 
Fort  Gibson  had  been  called  for ;  so  the  force  actually 
there  were  kept  at  hard  and  constant  work.  There 
were  rumors  of  incursions  of  hostile  tribes.  A  large 
party  of  young  Seminole  braves  had  ostensibly  gone  on 
a  distant  hunt ;  but  old  Indian  fighters  among  the 
officers  and  men  began  to  examine  the  trails  more 
curiously.  They  kiiew  the  war-path  was  open. 


PART   IV. 

BABY   RUE. 


BFT  oh  !  as  to  embrace  me  she  inclined, 

I  waked  ;  she  fled  ;  and  day  brought  back  my  night. 

JOHN  MILTON. 


PART   IV. 

BABY  HUE. 


CHAPTER  XV. 

CALAMITY  is  man's  true  touchstone. 

BEAUMONT  AND  FLETCHEK. 

EXCEPT  the  frequent  absence  of  Leszinksky  and 
the  two  soldiers,  who  now  belonged  of  right  to 
the  family,  there  had  been  few  changes  at  Bouie's  Hill. 
The  one  likely  to  prove  most  grievous  to  that  loving 
little  circle  was,  as  }ret,  scarcely  perceptible  to  a  casual 
observer.  Margaret's  health  was  gradually  failing.  No 
apparent  disease  ;  but  ever  since  that  illness  at  Casta- 
lar's,  after  the  accident,  she  had  slowly  succumbed  to  a 
growing  feebleness  and  delicacy  which  the  doctor  had 
watched  with  anxious  solicitude.  Leszinkslry,  ordina 
rily  so  clear-sighted,  so  observant,  and  carefully  tender 
of  his  wife,  was  completely  deceived  b}'  the  bright  color 
and  gay  spirits  that  marked,  at  his  return,  the  feverish 
reaction  from  languor  during  his  now  almost  constantly 
enforced  absence. 

The  rest  of  the  family  news  can  best  be  gleaned  by 
an  evening  with  Uncle  Abram.  It  was  the  twent}'- 
fourth  of  December.  A  bright  fire  of  pine-knots, 
which  the  old  man  had  gathered  in  the  hills  "up  the 
river"  to  make  a  hospitable  light  when  the  comfort 
able  cabin  held  guests  the  patriarch  delighted  to  honor, 
gave  the  high  lights  and  deep  shadows  of  a  Rembrandt. 
In  front  of  the  fireplace  was  a  table  upon  which  Solo 
mon  was  arranging  a  medley  collection  of  delf,  the  last 
pieces  of  many  sets  that  had  adorned  hall  and  kitchen 


108  BABY  RUE. 


at  Mount  Hope  through  the  changes  of  four  generations. 
The  light-wood  knots  were  burning  in  the  end  of  the 
huge  fireplace  near  where  the  guests  were  sitting,  whilst 
in  the  other  Mead  was  watching  the  red  coals  that  cov 
ered  his  'possum  roast,  Awhile  he  carefully  turned  the 
hoe-cakes  that  both  sides  might  have  the  required  color 
of  golden  brown.  In  a  sheltered  corner  the  coffee 
steamed  slowly.  Near  the  pot  sat  Uncle  Abram,  and 
from  his  coigne  of  vantage  in  the  shadow  he  could  watch 
his  aids  at  their  work,  and  yet  not  lose  the  admiring 
looks  his  guests  gave  the  preparations  for  the  evening 
feast.  These  favored  guests  were  the  gigantic  "  Pike  " 
and  Black  Beaver.  The  giant  sat  in  the  corner  near 
the  bright  blaze  which  bronzed  his  yellow  hair  and  ruddy 
complexion,  deepening  the  blue  eyes  until  the}-  looked 
like  purple  ametlrysts  set  in  the  huge  face  of  some 
roughly-sculptured  Viking.  Near  him  Black  Beaver 
reclined  at  ease  upon  a  shaggy  buffalo  robe,  his  blanket 
thrown  aside  for  the  greater  luxury  of  the  fire.  Moc 
casins  and  leggings  removed,  the  shapely  limbs  showed 
their  network  of  compact,  sinewy  muscles.  The  ensemble 
of  light  and  shade,  the  rough  walls  with  their  mixed  orna 
ments,  —  here  a  hideous  print  in  the  style  of  art  known 
to  the  decorative  department  of  the  travelling  showman, 
there  a  magnificent  pair  of  antlers,  — a  dresser  decked 
with  the  dishes  Solomon  dared  not  heap  upon  the  table, 
an  old  musket,  and  numberless  strings  of  onions  and 
dried  pumpkin,  with  here  and  there  bunches  of  savory 
herbs  hanging  from  the  rafters,  combined  to  form  a 
picture  that  would  have  delighted  an  artist. 

The  taciturn  guests  left  to  Uncle  Abram  the  delight 
of  a  continuous  flow  of  talk.  Mead's  occupation  was 
too  serious  for  conversation,  and  even  Solomon  rarely 
found  time  to  interrupt  the  patriarch  with  question  or 
correction  ;  so  the  stream  ran  freel}'. 

' '  Yer  see  ef  Marse  Stan  has  to  go  wid  de  army  to 
Mexiker,  ef  dey  can't  do  widouten  him,  fur  he's  de 
on'y  one  ob  dem  ossifers  dat  wus  bawn  a  gineral,  —  leas,t 
ways  his  gran'fadder  was  one, — den  I  dunno  what's 
gwiiie  to  become  o'  Miss  Marg'ret.  She  's  a  gittin'  dat 


BABY  RUE.  109 


peekid  an'  white  dat  I 's  mos'  'fraid  she  's  got  de  ager  an' 
fever  consumshun.  (See  heah,  Mead,  you  'tend  to  dat 
'possum!  I  s'pec'  he's  a  burnin'.  I  smell  de  cabbage 
leaves  dat 's  roun'  him  a  scorchin'.)  Well,  ef  she  don't 
go  wid  Marse  Stan,  den  she  '11  git  wusser  every  day. 
I 's  noticed  dat 's  what  she 's  a  doin'  all  de  time. 
Now  dis  very  day  befo'  Marse  Stan  cum  home  she  look 
white  as  my  Miss  Mary  did  dat  summer  she  lef  us,  an' 
jes  as  soon  as  he  got  heah  her  cheeks  is  like  dein  big 
damas'  roses  at  Mount  Hope,  an'  her  eyes  as  bright  as 
dat  light-wood  a  burnin'.  I  tell  yer  she 's  got  fever  an' 
ager  consumshun  sho.  (Solomon,  don't  yer  touch  dat 
big  dish;  yo'  's  too  rambitious  fur  yo'  size.)  It's  a 
good  thing  Miss  Cas'ler  tuck  little  Miss  Rue  wid  her  to 
de  ranch.  She  was  a-aggravatin'  her  mother  an'  makin' 
her  wuss.  I  never  did  see  a  chile  like  her  nohow.  She 
ain't  quite  three  year  ole  an'  she  sticks  on  dat  little  Injin 
pony  Marse  Bob  Stearns  brung  her,  jes  like  a  monkey. 
I  s'pec'  clem  ole  Desinkskys  mus'  a  had  some  Injin  blood. 
She  ac'  like  it,  she  do.  I  don't  mean  no  'fence  to  3'ou, 
Black  Beaver  ;  but  she  ar'  dat  cantakerous  when  }'er  try 
to  make  her  behave  like  a  little  white  lad}'.  Not  as  I  kin 
say  she  cries  or  hollers  ;  fur  she  don't  dat.  But  't  ain't 
no  use  wurritin'  her.  I  see  Miss  Marg'ret  done  guv 
up  try  in'  to  break  her  in.  Not  dat  she  don't  lub  her 
mother  needer,  but  yer  see  she 's  jes  bawn  bavin'  her 
own  way.  She  do  mine  her  father,  now  she  knows 
be  's  a  Desinksky  too ;  but  she  ain't  'fraid  o'  him  one 
bit.  She  go  'bout  doin'  what  he  say  in  sich  a  wa}',  so 
proud-like,  dat  it 's  jes  sayin',  '  I  mine  yer,  cos  I  want 
to;  ef  I  didn't,  I  wouldn't.'  An'  she  wouldn't.  But 
fur  all  she  so  proud-like,  she  ain't  got  one  bit  o'  proper 
scristocratic  notion ',  she  ain't.  Now  she  don't  take  to 
me ;  but  she  '11  do  anything  for  Oscar,  cos  he  don't  never 
'tradict  her  in  nothin'.  An'  Marse  Bob  Stearns,  drunk 
or  sober,  she  's  his  frien'.  Now  dat  time  las'  Easter, 
an'  she  wah  n't  but  two  year  die,  when  Marse  Bob  got 
on  dat  big  spree  an'  rode  up  de  steps  ob  de  porch  dar, 
an'  ax  her  to  clum  up  in  his  lap,  she  did  it,  an'  on'y 
laffed  an'  hollered  when  he  made  de  boss  jump  offen  de 


1 10  BAB Y  RUE. 


end  ob  de  porch  an'  flinged  bofe  ob  'ein.  An'  when 
Miss  Marg'ret  run  out  all  tremblin'  an'  pick  her  up, 
befo'  Oscar  heerd  de  noise  an'  could  get  dar,  wfry,  she 
jes  would  n't  go  in  widouten  Marse  Bob  ;  an'  1  mus'  say, 
it  sobered  him,  an'  he  ain't  been  drunk  since.  (Mead, 
I  know  dat  'possum 's  done  ;  did  n't  I  tole  yer  long  ago  ? 
Now  jes'  look  at  dem  cabbage  leaves  yo's  a  peelin'  off ; 
dey  's  burnt  all  to  rags ;  but  I  mus'  saj~  it  do  smell 
good.  Now  take  dem  'taters  outen  de  fire.  Solomon  ! 
let  de  table  'lone.  Don't  do  no  good  to  keep  a  fixin'  de 
dishes  an'  3-0'  all  de  time  stealin'  dat  sugar.)  " 

"No,  I  ain't,  Grandaddj* ;  I  on'y  spilled  a  little  on 
nry  han'  a  moovin'  of  it.  Dat's  all  I  eat." 

"  Well,  yo'  quit  a  movin'  of  it,  or  I'll  move  yo'  up 
de  lof  widouten  any  supper.  Now,  Marse  Pike,  ef 
you  '11  sot  at  dat  end  ob  de  table  dar,  an'  't  ain't  no  'fence 
to  j'ou,  Black  Beaver  and  me  '11  sot  here  at  dis  side." 

And  so  the  Viking  was  throned  above  the  salt :  thus 
the  rude  courtesy  of  a  negro  cabin  defined  the  differ 
ence  in  race.  Pike  and  Black  Beaver  now  opened  their 
mouths  to  some  purpose,  and  Uncle  Abram  was  silenced 
by  the  savoiy  morsels  the  two  attendants  heaped  upon 
his  plate. 

There  were  also  guests  in  the  dining-room  of  Bouie's 
Hill.  At  the  fort,  Leszinksk}',,  newh'  arrived  from  an 
expedition  up  the  Arkansas  in  search  of  a  band  of  ma 
rauding  Pawnees,  had  met  Carson  and  CaptaiifBen  just 
in  from  the  Creek  country ;  they  gladly  accepted  his 
invitation  to  accompan}'  him  home.  Another  welcome 
addition  to  the  party  arrived  at  sundown,  —  the  doctor, 
who  had  been  on  a  visit  to  the  family  of  the  Cherokee 
chief  at  Talequah.  Margaret's  hot,  feverish  hand  de 
termined  him  to  warn  Leszinksky.  Glancing  from  her 
burning  cheek  to  her  husband,  he  said,  "It  is  well  you 
are  home,  Leszinksky.  I  do  not  like  Mrs.  Leszinksky's 
languor  when  you  are  awaj-  any  better  than  I  do  this 
veiy  high  color,  which  is  certainly  feverish." 

"  Don't  believe  him,  Mrs.  Leszinksky,"  broke  in  Cap 
tain  Ben's  cheery  voice,  "  you  were  never  looking  better. 
Randall 's  getting  to  be  a  regular  calomel  croaker.  He 


BABY  RUE.  Ill 


has  certainly  frightened  the  color  out  of  Leszinksky's 
brown  face  ;  so,  to  get  even,  keep  yours.  Wlty,  Miss 
Stephanie  has  a  little  pale-rose  bloom  in  her  cheeks  this 
evening,  because  Randall's  pill-bags  have  been  at  Tale- 
quah  for  a  week  "  ;  and  he  pinched  the  shell-like  ear  of 
the  daughter  of  Paul  Castalar,  and  went  on  with  a  merry 
teasing  which  the  little  child-woman  resented  with  a 
gravity  that  delighted  him. 

Leszinksk}*'s  fears  were  aroused.  All  through  the 
supper  he  watched  Margaret's  face,  and  grew  more 
grave  as  he  began  to  understand  the  story  it  told  :  she 
was  much  thinner,  and  that  deep  circle  around  the  eyes 
and  the  blue  veins  of  the  pale  temples,  were  all  parts  of 
the  history.  Carson,  too,  was  observant ;  and  Marga 
ret,  feeling  the  watching,  blushed  and  paled  visibly. 
Then  somehow  Captain  Ben  caught  the  prevailing  infec 
tion  of  fear ;  and,  to  hide  it,  grew  more  noisy.  The 
doctor  led  the  conversation  into  another  channel  of 
anxiety  by  an  inquiry  :  — 

"  What  of  the  Seininole  hunting-party,  Captain  Moore? 
Has  it  gone  to  Mexico  ?  " 

"Yes;  it  is  impossible  to  believe  anj'thing  else. 
Black  Beaver  and  Stearns  followed  them  to  the  Washita 
River,  whilst  we  waited  in  camp  on  the  South  Canadian 
near  their  village.  They  were  positive  that  it  was  a 
war  party.  Black  Beaver  is  the  best  trailer  I  know, 
and  Stearns's  judgment  as  a  frontiersman  is  simply  per 
fect.  Moreover,  I  learned  from  some  friendl}'  Indians 
that  the  party  was  composed  of  }"oung  Seminole  braves 
and  the  disaffected  Creeks  who  came  with  the  Seminoles 
from  Florida.  I  know  what  they  are  up  to.  The  Indian 
women  were  all  left  at  the  village,  provisioned  for  the 
winter,  whilst  the  negro  settlement  is  deserted,  —  which 
proves  it  was  no  hunting  expedition.  The  young  braves 
are  burning  for  martial  fame  and  a  seat  in  the  council. 
I  saw  Coacoochee  and  saw  that  he  had  no  love  for  us. 
He  has  not  forgotten  old  scores,  although  he  has 
learned  that  peace  is  the  policy  of  his  people.  It  is 
possible  that  he  could  not  control  the  young  men.  It  is 
also  possible  that  he  did  not  care  to,  if  they  were  suffi- 


112  BABY  RUE. 


ciently  prudent  in  the  start  not  to  inculpate  those  who 
stay  at  home." 

' '  Do  you  think  there  will  be  trouble  here  ?  "  asked  the 
doctor. 

"None  ;  unless  from  the  Pawnees,  who  will  naturally 
grow  bolder  as  our  force  is  weakened.  Leszinksky  can 
tell  you  news  of  them." 

"  Very  little  that  is  certain,"  said  Leszinksky.  "  We 
only  learned  that  there  are  small  marauding  parties  out 
along  the  frontier.  We  heard  of  two  which  were  going 
toward  the  Canadian  and  probably  further  south.  The 
most  alarming  rumor  is  that  they  have  made,  or  are 
about  to  make,  an  alliance  with  the  Comanchesof  Sena- 
co's  band.  I  know  they  are  in  motion,  —  their  signals 
were  always  before  us.  We  saw  the  smoke  rising  from 
peak  to  peak  of  every  hill-top  on  our  way  out.  The 
signals  multiplied  behind  us  as  we  returned." 

"  You  did  not  tell  me  of  that,  Leszinksky,"  said  Cap 
tain  Moore.  "  I  don't  like  the  idea  of  these  signals 
following  you.  Where  did  you  leave  them  ?  " 

"  At  the  junction  of  the  Red  Fork." 

"  What  direction  from  you  ?  " 

"South.  Nearly  all  the  hill-tops  south  caught  the 
signal  and  answered." 

"  Did  you  report  that  fully  to  Colonel  Kearny  ?  " 

"  I  mentioned  the  signals,  but  possibly  did  not  give 
them  the  importance  they  deserved." 

"  The}-  are  all-important  when  the  hostiles  are  out  on 
a  fora}-.  I  should  not  wonder  if  the}'  struck  some  out 
lying  ranch  near  us.  Who  is  at  Castalar's?" 

"  My  baby  —  Rue  is  there  !  "  broke  in  Margaret  ex 
citedly.  "  She  is  coming  home  to-morrow.  " 

"  Calm  yourself,  my  dear  Mrs.  Leszinksky.  She  is 
in  no  danger.  We  are  just  in  from  the  suspected  dis 
tricts  ;  but  in  a  week  or  two  it  might  not  be  quite  safe. 
Fortunately  I  sent  Stearns  to  Castalar's  to  tell  him  to 
guard  his  cattle  from  thieving  parties,  and  also  to  ad 
vise  that  he  send  the  non-fighting  part  of  the  family 
here.  I  do  not  know  that  Rue  belongs  to  the  peace 
party,  but  still  she  will  come  with  the  non-combatants." 
And  Captain  Moore  laughed  heartily,  partly  at  Rue's 


BABY  RUE.  113 


well-known  peace  principles,   and  partly  to  cairn  her 
mother. 

Before  the  ring  of  the  laughter  died  the  door  opened, 
and  Bob  Stearns  staggered  in,  more  haggard  and  wild 
in  appearance  than  when  we  first  met  him  at  the  ford  of 
the  Canadian.  lie  looked  at  Margaret,  and  then  dropped 
on  his  knees  with  his  face  covered  by  his  hands.  All 
sprang  to  their  feet.  Leszinksky  put  his  arm  around 
his  wife,  who  paled  and  trembled  like  an  aspen,  before 
the  coming  storm. 

"  What  is  it,  man?  Can't  you  speak?"  said  Captain 
Moore. 

"  Take  her  out  of  here  before  I  tell  it.  God  o'  mercy, 
take  her  out ! " 

"  My  babj'  —  Eue  —  my  darling!  She  loved  you  — 
tell  me  what  of  her?  It  is  that  I  know.  Oh,  tell  me  ! 
If  God  has  taken  her  I  can  bear  it.  She  is  safe  with 
my  Heavenly  Father  —  tell  me  it  is  THAT  !  " 

"Tell  her,"  said  the  doctor,  forcing  Bob  to  speak. 
"  This  suspense  is  worse  than  what  you  have  to  tell." 

"  She  ain't  dead,  marm.  I  wish  to  God  she  was,  so 
be  and  you  could  bar  it.  She 's  a  prisoner  with  them 
damned  Pawnees.  She 's  the  only  human  thing  they 
spar'd  outen  the  butchery  thar  at  Castalar's." 

The  bolt  had  gone  straight  to  the  mother's  heart. 
There  was  no  outcry,  —  only  a  pitiful  white  face,  with 
a  wan,  unmeaning  smile  upon  it,  turned  from  one  to 
another,  and  then  with  a  murmui'ed  ' '  M_y  little  daughter, 
you  said  —  I  do  not  understand.  Rue?  Bab}'  Rue! 
She  is  coming  to-morrow,  for  Christmas  —  my  bab}". 
She  will  come,  Stan.  It  is  her  fete  day.  You  remem 
ber,  Doctor,  she  was  christened  on  Christmas.  You 
are  all  here  in  time.  Her  god-father,  too — just  in  time. 
Madame  Castalar  will  bring  her.  Don't  cry,  Bob  —  she 
loves  3-011.  I  always  can  trust  you  now.  You  have  not 
been  drunk  since  that  day  I  thought  you  had  killed  her. 
What  is  wrong  with  you  all?  Rue  is  coming  —  Baby 
Rue  !  Are  you  not  glad,  Stan  ?  "  then  a  burst  of  h}Tsteri- 
cal  tears  and  mad  laughter,  calling  her  child,  always 
calling  her  child,  —  "  Baby  Rue,  little  daughter !  Rue! 
Rue  !  Baby  Rue  !  "  8 


114  BABY  RUE. 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

0  the  difference  of  divers  men  in  the  tenderness  of  their  con 
sciences  !  Some  are  scarcely  touched  with  a  wound,  whilst  others 
are  wounded  with  a  touch  therein.  —  FULLER. 

IT  is  needful  for  the  understanding  of  this  history  to  go 
back  to  the  moment  when,  in  obedience  to  Captain 
Moore's  order,  Bob  left  the  command  to  warn  Castalar 
of  the  probable  incursion  of  thieving  parties  of  hostiles. 
A  few  weeks  previous  Bob  had  met  at  the  fort  a  trapper, 
an  old  comrade,  in  from  the  headwaters  of  the  San 
Bois.  The  trapper  had  given  a  very  accurate  descrip 
tion  of  the  situation  of  his  camp ;  and  a  cordial  invita 
tion  to  Bob  to  visit  it,  if  at  any  time  his  duties  as  scout 
led  him  to  that  neighborhood.  Remembering  the  soli 
tary  condition  of  his  old  friend,  who  had  no  idea  of  any 
immediate  trouble  with  Indians,  Bob  thought  it  no  vio 
lation  of  orders  to  make  a  slight  detour  from  the  direct 
route  to  Castalar  Vallej-  and  give  the  trapper  the  benefit 
of  the  warning  he  was  taking  to  the  ranch. 

The  camp  was  at  the  head  of  a  secluded  little  ravine, 
through  which  flowed  one  of  the  smallest  tributaries  of 
the  San  Bois.  The  judgment  of  the  old  Indian  fighter 
had  ruled  in  its  selection.  The  winding  path  that  led 
up  the  ravine  was  on  a  low  ledge  of  broken  rock  over 
hung  by  jutting  points  fringed  with  lengths  of  trailing 
vines  that  touched  the  tops  of  the  swamp-willows  that 
formed  a  dense  thicket  on  the  south  side  of  the  boggy 
banks  of  the  little  rivulet.  Across  the  narrow  stream 
on  the  north,  pond-lilies  grew  to  the  very  edge  of  the 
abrupt  and  perpendicular  cliff.  At  the  head  of  the  ra- 


BABY  RUE.  115 


vine  the  bluffs  widened  suddenly,  and  then  joined  at  the 
point  where  a  little  cascade  issued  from  a  clear,  cold 
spring  in  the  cleft  rock  ;  thus  forming  a  circular  setting 
of  wooded  heights  to  a  lovely  little  valley  which  the 
spray  had  kept  fresh  and  green  up  to  this  late  season. 

It  was  after  sunset :  the  trapper  had  not  yet  returned 
from  his  rounds,  but,  sure  of  his  welcome,  Bob  un 
saddled  and  tethered  his  horse,  and,  finding  in  the 
Comanche-like  lodge  of  his  friend  ample  provision, 
commenced  the  preparation  of  the  evening  meal,  chuck 
ling  with  quiet  glee  as  he  thought  of  the  surprise  he 
was  about  to  give  his  old  comrade  of  the  plains.  The 
meal  ready,  Bob  waited  until  hunger  got  the  better  of 
courtesy.  After  eating  his  supper,  he  remembered  a 
package  of  tobacco  he  had  seen  on  an  upper  shelf  of 
the  lodge,  so  he  added  a  few  logs  to  the  fire  and  took  a 
burning  brand  of  dry  pine  to  light  his  search.  Unfor 
tunately,  behind  the  tobacco  was  a  large  flat  bottle  or 
whiskey.  Resolutely  Bob  turned  from  the  temptation, 
but  out  in  the  growing  darkness,  try  all  he  could,  — 
and  he  did  try  manfully,  —  the  bottle,  like  Macbeth's 
dagger,  was  palpable  to  sight.  The  pipe  no  longer 
soothed :  it  only  suggested  a  greater  pleasure.  One 
habit  indulged,  the  suppression  of  the  -other  grew 
more  difficult.  The  old,  mad  longing  for  alcohol  came 
upon  him  in  his  loneliness.  One  by  one  the  sophisms 
of  the  drunkard  hushed  the  voice  of  reason  —  of  con 
science.  "  He  would  take  just  one  drink,  only  one. 
That  could  do  no  harm.  He  was  tired  and  sleepy. 
He  would  onl}r  take  a  moderate  drink,  and  then  doze 
out  there  under  the  stars  until  his  friend  came.  He 
had  been  with  Black  Beaver  on  that  long  scout  to  the 
AVashita.  He  needed  a  drink  ;  people  always  needed 
anything  they  craved  like  this  ;  he  had  heard  the  doctor 
say  as  much  long  ago,  that  time  he  had  the  fever  in 
Florida.  Only  one  drink,  and  then  he  would  wrap  up 
in  his  blanket  and  sleep  out  here  by  the  fire.  That 
would  do  him  good.  He  would  then  be  all  strength 
ened  and  ready  for  that  long  ride  to-morrow.  He 
could  get  to  Castalar's  to  breakfast,  and  report  at  the 


Il6  BABY  RUE. 


fort  in  the  evening.     He  was  not  ordered  to  be  there 
sooner."     And  so  the  fiend  conquered  him. 

It  was  nearly  midnight  when  the  trapper  returned,  and 
found  Bob  lost  to  consciousness  in  the  deep,  heavy 
sleep  of  the  drunkard. 

The  sun  was  shining  brightly  in  the  little  valley  when 
Bob  awoke.  Sleeping  in  the  clear,  crisp  air  had  nearly 
sobered  him.  The  sight  of  his  friend  and  the  smell  of 
the  freshly  made  coffee  brought  him  to  his  feet. 

"  I  say,  Tisson,  if  you  had  n't  a-told  me  all  about  the 
windin's  of  this  little  creek  I  never  could  a-found  3-0' 
place  up  here.  It 's  a  might}'  good  thing  it 's  so  well 
hid,  for  I  jus'  come  to  tell  you  them  damned  Pawnees 
is  up  agin." 

"I  know  it;  I  seed  'em:  but  hurry  up  now,  and 
souse  yo'  head  in  that  trough  thai1  to  git  the  kinks 
outen  it.  Yer  mos'  finished  all  my  meddysin  fur  me 
las'  night." 

Looking  like  a  school-boy  who  has  deserved  and 
awaits  punishment,  Bob  obe3'ed.  Two  or  three  times 
he  plunged  his  head  in  the  trough  of  running  water, 
which  seemed  warm  in  that  sharp  December  air,  and 
then  rubbed  it  vigorous^  with  a  rough  towel,  that 
hanging  upon  a  pole  above  the  trough  made  a  luxurious 
toilet  equipage  for  a  backwoodsman. 

The  hot  coffee  and  venison  steak  in  a  measure  re 
paired  the  effects  of  the  debauch,  which  had  not  lasted 
long  enough  to  get  the  nerves  fully  in  the  toils.  Tisson 
soon  cleared  away  the  remains  of  the  breakfast,  and, 
producing  pipes  and  tobacco,  was  ready  to  exchange 
news.  The  trapper  began  :  — 

^'  I  knowed  thar  must  be  mischief  up.  I  was  down 
thar  on  the  San  Bois  yesteddy  about  sundown  —  below 
the  mouth  of  this  here  branch.  It  jus'  happened  I  had 
tied  my  hoss  about  a  half  mile  furder  up  in  the  bushes, 
and  was  a  lookin'  along  at  my  traps  thar,  when  I  heerd 
somebody  comin'.  I  thought  fust  about  you,  and  then 
I  thought  ma\*be  it  moughtn't  be  3*011,  and  I  better  not 
show  thar  was  am'  traps  thar.  So  I  stooped  down  in 
the  bushes  and  presently  one  o'  them  cussed  Pawnees 


BABY  RUE.  117 


come  ridin'  along  in  his  war-paint.  Now,  that  tuck  me 
all  aback.  You  see  the  imperence  o'  the  varmint,  way 
over  here  outen  his  beat,  right  under  the  nose  o'  the  fort 
you  may  say,  and  I  was  jus'  a-goin'  to  fetch  him  (I  had 
a  cl'ar  bead  on  him)  when  I  seed  the  bundle  he  was 
carryin'  was  a  little  young  un.  Now,  you  see,  if 'twas 
a  white  child  he  had  stole  I  mought  a  hurt  it,  and  if 
't  was  a  pappoose  and  I  killed  him  I  would  n't  know  what 
to  do  with  it,  cos,  you  see,  I  could  n't  brain  it  like  a  Injin 
would.  So  I  was  kinder  kumflabbergasted.  He  was  a 
powerful  mean-lookin'  Injin.  I  saw  him  close,  fur  he 
brushed  the  bushes  whar  I  was.  His  nose  was  cut  bad, 
and  thar  was  a  long  scar  clar  across  the  side  of  his 
face.  I  'm  sho'  some  dragoon  must  a  done  it,  fur  it 
looked  like  a  sabre-cut.  Jus'  when  he  passed  me  the 
young  un  kicked  and  fit,  and  give  a  mad-like  little  cry, 
and  somethin'  dropped  right  by  me.  It  was  on'}'  TI 
little  moccasin,  so  I  knowed  it  was  a  pappoose  and  I  let 
him  go  on.  And  it  was  mighty  well  I  did,  fur  ten 
minutes  arter  I  saw  a  whole  pack  o'  them  red  devils 
ridin'  'long  the  other  side  the  creek,  all  in  thar  war 
paint  and  a  drivin'  a  lot  o'  bosses  and  mustangs, 
haltered  together,  that  they  mus'  a  stole.  If  it  had  n't 
been  fur  this  little  moccasin,  that  I  kep'  cos  'twas  so 
purty,  I  'd  a-been  sho  that  young  un  was  a  white  child 
they'd  stole." 

"  Lemme  see  that  moccasin,"  said  Bob,  with  a  face 
so  scared  and  white  that  Tisson  sprang  to  his  feet  in 
alarm  as  he  handed  the  tiny  thing  to  Bob. 

"  Yes,  it's  hers ;  I  brought  'em  to  her  from  up  the 
Osage  country.  That 's  two  weeks  ago,  and  she 
would  n't  war  an}'thing  else  "  ;  and  the  poor  fellow  looked 
at  the  little  covering  of  a  baby's  foot  as  if  his  sense  of 
all  else  on  earth  had  vanished. 

"  Who?  What  do  you  mean?  Why,  Bob,  I  believe 
you  're  drunk  }"et." 

"  This  is  the  wust  cuss  the  liquor 's  brought  me  yet. 
It 's  jus'  that,  and  I  swore  to  myself  the  day  I  mos' 
killed  her  that  I  'd  quit.  If  I  had  n't  been  drunk  when 
3'ou  come  last  night  we  mought  a-got  her  out  o'  thar 


Il8  BABY  RUE. 


clutches.  And  now — now  I  can't  tell  what  devils' 
doin's  has  been  at  Castalar's  ;  and  I  did  n't  know  she 
was  thar ;  and  her  mother  —  they  must  a-killed  her 
mother  'fore  they  got  her." 

"Who  is  she,  Bob?     Are  you  drunk  or  crazy?  " 

"  It 's  the  little  capt'n's  moccasin,  —  little  Miss  Rue, 
the  leftenant's  little  babj'.  They  've  been  gooder  to  me 
than  God.  Her  mother  come  straight  from  heaven, 
and  her  father  's  the  best  and  bravest  man  sence  Julius 
Caesar  or  Jesus  Christ.  But  we  ain't  got  no  call  to  stop 
here.  Tisson,  you're  a  man,  and  so  am  I,  —  leastways 
when  the  devil  of  drink  ain't  got  me.  We  '11  get  her 
agin,  so  be  and  all  the  Pawnees  in  hell  was  back  in  the 
woods  here  between  us  and  her.  I  swar  by  my  ole 
mother  and  my  dead  wife,  and  the  chillen  I  mought  a- 
had,  and  her,  that  I  '11  never  put  another  drop  of  cussed 
liquor  in  my  mouth  till  I  see  her  safe  and  sound  with 
her  folks." 

Two  hours'  hard  riding  brought  them  to  Castalar's. 
Tisson  had  persuaded  Bob  to  go  there  first.  The  trail 
of  the  marauders  was  eas}-  to  find :  they  were  a  large 
part}',  and  evidently  did  not  expect  immediate  pursuit. 
Bob  had  listened  to  reason ;  and,  seeing  the  trail  might 
lead  into  the  Indian  country,  knew  it  was  the  best  and 
only  safe  and  right  way  to  go  first  to  Castalar's,  find 
out  the  extent  of  the  misfortune,  and  then  send  or  go 
to  the  fort  for  assistance. 

The  first  glance  down  the  valley  told  the  tale  of 
horror.  The  house  was  a  heap  of  smouldering  logs. 


BABY  RUE.  119 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

HE  cometh  unto  you  with  a  tale  which  holdeth  children  from 
their  play  and  old  men  from  the  chimney-corner. — SIK  PHILIP 
SIDNEY. 

MARGARET  bad  been  taken  to  her  room  in  violent 
hysterics,  when  Stephanie  Castalar,  who  had 
listened  to  Bob's  announcement  of  the  tragedy  without 
an  outcry,  suddenly  dropped,  like  some  wild  thing  who 
has  vainly  tried  to  repress  the  pain  of  a  death-wound. 
Captain  Moore  threw  open  the  window,  and  let  in  the 
clear,  cold  air,  whilst  Carson  chafed  the  girl's  hands. 

All  this  time  Bob  Stearns  stood  looking  helplessly 
about,  listening  to  the  wild  cries  that  came  through  the 
closed  doors  from  the  room  where  the  stricken  mother 
la}-  in  her  agony. 

The  stooped  and  relaxed  pose  of  the  soldier  expressed 
his  crushed,  hopeless  condition.  Ever}-  muscle  was  un 
strung.  His  very  sorrow  seemed  to  shrink  out  of  sight 
in  the  presence  of  a  deeper  grief.  The  manliest  part  of 
Bob's  nature  came  always  in  action  rather  than  endur 
ance  ;  and  now  he  must  wait  for  the  decision  of  his 
superiors.  There  was  nothing  more  trying  to  him  than 
to  wait.  He  wanted  to  tell  the  whole  story,  —  to  have 
done  with  the  questions  that  would  be  asked.  His  con 
science  pressed  him  sore,  and  he  had  the  vague  hope  of 
a  child  who  trusts  to  get  rid  of  the  burden  of  a  repented 
fault  by  confessing  it.  Even  penitence  with  Bob  ex 
pressed  itself  better  in  action  than  in  words.  He  wanted 
to  be  off,  following  the  bloody  trail  up  the  San  Bois. 
He  wondered  how  any  one  could  delay  a  moment,  now 


120  BABY  RUE. 


they  had  heard  of  Rue's  danger.  The  child  was  every 
thing  to  him.  She  was  his  conscience.  The  danger  he  had 
saved  her  from,  the  danger  he  had  placed  her  in,  led  all 
his  thoughts  to  her.  He  had  tried  hard  to  keep  sober 
for  her  sake  ;  and  now  there  was  a  tinge  of  superstition 
mixed  with  his  sorrow.  He  had  only  been  drunk  twice 
since  this  Christmas  eve  a  year  ago,  and  both  times  he 
had  put  Rue's  life  in  danger ;  for  he  could  not  rid  him 
self  of  the  belief  that,  if  he  had  not  drunk  Tisson's 
whiskey,  he  would,  single-handed,  have  followed  the 
baby  and  saved  her.  He  felt  now  that  the  hour  for 
saving  her  had  passed.  It  was  the  night  before  —  the 
night  he  had  lain  like  a  log,  whilst  she  moaned  and 
fought  in  the  hands  of  her  captors  —  the  recapture  should 
have  been  attempted.  Then  the  Indians  rested,  fear 
less  of  pursuit,  in  a  county  where  he  knew  every  foot 
of  the  ground.  Where  he  could  have  turned  ever}r  acci 
dent  of  formation  in  hill  and  ravine  into  a  helper,  with 
Tisson  to  assist,  he  could  have  brought  her  unscathed 
out  of  the  midst  of  the  savages.  But  now  he  must  wait. 
He  was  no  longer  a  man  free  to  think,  to  plan,  to  act : 
he  was  only  a  dragoon  waiting  for  orders.  His  aimless 
thinking  had  at  length  resolved  itself  into  the  resolution 
to  desert  again,  and  follow  her  through  the  trackless 
wilderness  like  a  faithful  dog,  when  Sara  and  the  doctor 
came  from  Margaret's  room,  where  the  cries  had  sunk  to 
low  moans.  They  carried  away  the  unconscious  Ste 
phanie,  who  had  been  so  suddenly  bereft  of  home  and 
kindred.  Then,  as  Bob's  questioning  commenced, 
Leszinksky  returned. 

"What  did  we  see  at  the  ranch?  Why,  'twas  a 
sight  to  make  a  Quaker  swar  he  'd  kill  Injins  the  rest 
of  his  life.  The  house  had  fell,  and  was  still  a-burnin'. 
We  pried  up  some  logs,  and  found  a  lot  of  half-burnt 
bodies,  —  Madame  Castalar  and  the  little  children.  I 
thought  Mrs.  Leszinksky  was  thar  too  till  I  got  here.  In 
the  kitchen  and  cabins  the  nigger  women  and  children 
was  butchered.  Some  little  ones  was  a-lyin'  dead  out 
side,  smashed  —  well,  you  know  how  Injins  kill  'em. 
Castalar  and  three  of  the  nigger  men  was  killed  and 


BABY  RUE.  121 


sculped  in  the  corral ;  two  more  niggers  was  a-lyin'  dead, 
and  sculped,  down  by  the  sheep-pen.  Thar 's  whar 
Stephen  was  killed,  and  thar  's  whar  they  got  our  baby!  " 
Here  his  voice  broke  into  pained  gasps. 

"  How  do  you  know?  "  asked  Leszinksky,  whose  face 
was  as  colorless  and  pained  and  sweet  as  that  pictured 
of  the  Sufferer  in  Gethsemane. 

"  Why,  that's  the  on'y  place  any  fight  was  made. 
The  rest  on  'em  up  at  the  house  was  killed  sooner. 
Them  two  men  was  thar  fixin'  the  shed  for  the  lambs. 
We  could  see  whar  they  left  thar  work.  Stephen  had 
the  little  capt'n  with  him.  He  had  put  a  board,  with  a 
piece  of  sheep-skin  over  it,  in  a  crossed  place  in  the 
fence-corner  whar  she  could  see  the  lambs.  When  he 
saw  the  Jnjins,  he  tuck  her  and  run  with  her  to  a  pile 
of  logs.  I  could  see  his  steps  runnin'  in  the  soft  mud 
down  thar.  He  drapt  his  hat  inside  the  pen  when  he 
reached  to  get  her  outen  the  little  seat  she  was  in. 
Then  he  must  a-seen  more  comin'  the  other  way.  He 
was  unsartain  like ;  for  he  put  her  in  between  the  logs 
and  stopped.  Thar  I  found  this  little  bonnet  o'  hers." 
And  he  took  out  a  blood-stained  little  blue  hood,  and 
gave  her  father,  who  put  it  in  his  breast  with  a  groan. 
Carson  turned  to  hide  the  tears  that  would  come ;  whilst 
Captain  Ben,  with  a  half-smothered  oath,  strode  up  to 
the  open  window,  where  Black  Beaver  and  Pike  were 
trying  to  hear  the  story. 

"  Come  in  here,  and  listen  to  Stearns's  description. 
You  must  know  just  where  we  have  to  look  for  the  child. 
Black  Beaver,  see  if  you  can  make  out  who  has  taken 
her." 

The  giant  swung  himself  into  the  room;  after  him, 
with  a  light  bound,  sprang  Black  Beaver. 

Calmly,  but  with  a  low,  vibrating  tone  that  told  of 
repressed  feeling,  Leszinksky  said :  "  Do  you  think  my 
child  was  unhurt?" 

"  Yes,  Leftenant.  The  blood  on  her  little  bonnet  is 
Stephen's.  Thar  was  a  pile  of  logs,  and  he  put  her  in 
among  'em,  whar  a  buUet  would  n't  strike  her.  He 
must  a-called  to  the  niggers,  for  they  come  to  him, 


122  BABY  RUE. 


runnin'.  Thar  long  jumpin'  tracks  was  eas}'  to  see  ;  and 
they  had  the  axes  they  was  a-workin'  with.  Stephen 
fought  mighty  cool  for  a  boy.  He  had  them  derringers 
you  give  him,  and  he  waited  till  the  niggers  was  by  him 
with  thar  axes.  -  I  could  see  thar  tracks  all  together, 
standin'  squar'  and  steady  like.  The  niggers  fought 
like  white  men,  and  brave  men  at  that.  Stephen  must 
a-killed  the  fust  Injin  he  shot  at  close  by  the  logs,  and 
one  of  them  niggers  clove  another  red  devil  most  in  two 
with  his  axe  a  few  feet  closer  in.  That 's  how  I  know 
Stephen  waited.  He  knew  from  the  fust 't  was  a  losin' 
fight ;  but  he  tried  his  best  for  the  baby's  sake.  The}-  all 
fought  outside  the  logs  'cause  of  her  bein'  in  'em.  And 
just  at  the  last,  when  the  niggers  was  dead,  and  Stephen 
was  shot  in  the  leg  and  settin'  on  the  log  by  the  baby, 
he  cut  down  another  Injin  with  a  axe,  and  then  shot 
down  one  that  was  gettin'  in  behind  the  baby  with  the 
loaded  derringer  he  had  kep'  for  the  last.  He  must 
a-been  mos'  faintin'  when  he  shot,  for  he  la}-  with  his 
hand  restin'  on  the  log,  jus'  by  the  baby,  to  shoot ;  the 
powder  scorched  the  bark.  I  could  see  whar'  he  caught 
her  and  pushed  her  down  in  the  damp  thar.  I  could  see 
she  had  been  standin'.  I  reckon  she  got  up  to  look ;  she 
ain't  'fraid  o'  nothin'.  The  little  moccasin  tracks  was 
plain,  and  then  I  saw  whar  she  had  been  pushed  over, 
—  and  it  must  a-been  Stephen,  for  his  arm  was  lyin' 
close  to  the  place,  and  the  derringer  in  his  hand,  when 
we  found  him.  He  was  riddled  with  arrows,  and  cut 
with  a  tomahawk,  and  sculped.  A  big  Injin  got  the 
baby.  His  tracks  was  thar,  in  between  the  logs.  I 
dunnohow  it  come  he  did  n't  kill  her  ;  but  he  did  n't,  for 
when  Tisson  saw  her  she  was  hollerin'  mad-like,  and 
scratchin'  and  kickin'  like  a  young  catamount." 

"  Who  is  Tisson,  and  where  did  he  see  her?  "  asked 
all  the  officers  in  a  breath. 

Then  Bob  told  the  story  of  his  visit  and  his  friend's 
account  of  the  marauding  party,  not  shielding  his  fault 
from  blame,  but  -adding :  — 

"  It 's  the  hardest  of  all,  Leftenant.  I  mought  a-got 
thar  and  warned  'em,  if  I  had  n't  a-gone  by  Tisson's  ; 


BABY  RUE.  123 


and  I  mought  a-been  arter  'em  and  Tisson  here  to  tell 
you  'bout  it  this  rnornin',  and  we  could  a-had  a  better 
chance  follerin'  'em,  if  I  had  n't  a-got  drunk  last  night. 
It 's  stopped  me  this  time.  The  devil 's  lost  his  chance 
at  me, — leastways  till  the  little  capt'n 's  back  here 
safe." 

Black  Beaver  gave  a  significant  "  Humph  !  "  and  then 
asked :  "  You  say  him  big  Pawnee  got  heap  long  cut  off 
his  nose  on  um  face  ?  " 

"  Yes,  a  sabre-cut,  Tisson  said." 

u  You  see  him  track?" 

"  Yes  ;  whar  he  found  the  baby :  then  we  follered  it 
to  his  horse.  He  limped  on  one  foot." 

"  Humph  !  How  jou  know?" 

"One  foot  dragged  always  on  the  same  side.  You 
have  seen  me  trail  Injins.  You  know  I  can  see." 

"Yes,  white  man  got  eyes  heap  good.  Sometimes 
see  too  much  —  see  tings  never  was.  Dis  time  no  see 
miff —  no  see  which  foot  go  bad." 

"  Yes,  I  did.  I  follered  the  trail  going  south.  The 
right  foot  dragged." 

"Humph!  Right  foot  go  lame  —  heap  long  cut  on 
nose  :  which  side  ?  " 

"  The  right  side.  Tisson  told  me  that,  I  remember 
now." 

"Humph!  Good  ting  —  heap  'member  sometime." 
Then  he  turned  to  Leszinksk}- :  — 

"  Lo-loch-to-hoo-la,  Big  Chief — got  um  pappoose. 
Wolf  Pawnee  on  em  war-path." 

The  doctor  had  returned  in  time  to  hear  the  question 
ing.  Leszinksky  said  to  him  :  — 

"Doctor,  I  leave  my  wife  in  your  care.  It  is  hard 
to  leave  her,  but  my  first  duty  is  to  follow  my  little 
daughter.  We  may  have  to  go  into  the  heart  of  the 
Indian  country.  If  it  please  God  that  I  do  not  return, 
you  will  take  my  wife  to  her  friends  in  Memphis.  I 
rel}'  upon  3~ou  as  I  would  upon  a  brother." 

"Thank  you,  Leszinksk}-,  for  the  trust.  I  will  try  to 
deserve  it.  I  have  given  Mrs.  Leszinksky  a  composing 
draught,  and  can  leave  her  with  Sara  until  I  go  to  the 


124  BABY  RUE. 


fort.  I  must  arrange  for  Cooliclge  to  go  with  you.  A 
surgeon  may  be  needed  in  your  party." 

Captain  Moore  interrupted  :  — 

"  Stay  here,  Leszinksky,  with  Stearns,  Pike,  and 
Black  Beaver  until  the  doctor  returns  from  the  fort. 
After  this  daring  piece  of  deviltry  we  cannot  risk  Mrs. 
Leszinksky  here  without  an  efficient  defence.  I  will  go 
to  the  fort  with  the  doctor  and  report  to  Colonel  Kearny. 
I  shall  ask  for  my  compan}'  to  go  with  you.  The  doc 
tor  will  return  in  time  for  you  to  meet  us  at  the  ford 
of  the  Arkansas.  We  will  try  to  be  at  Castalar's  by 
daylight.  From  there  we  shall  follow  the  trail  of  these 
devils.  As  sure  as  there  is  a  God,  we  will  get  Rue  out 
of  their  clutches !  " 


BABY  RUE.  12$ 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 

THESE  let  us  wish  away  ; 

And  turn,  sole-thoughted,  to  one  lady  there. 

KEATS. 

AT  the  quarters  of  the  commanding  officer,  Colonel 
Kearny,  the  Whist  Club  was  in  full  force  that 
night.  The  best  players  of  the  1st  Dragoons  were 
pitted  against  an  adversary,  not  only  famous  in  the 
army,  that  school  of  whist,  but  among  the  masters  of 
the  game  in  Washington ;  where  he  and  the  gallant 
3'oung  aide  of  the  commander-in-chief  won  three  suc 
cessive  rubbers  that  famous  night  when  they  played 
the  champions  of  the  Congressional  Club,  —  a  victory 
not  counted  in  official  reports  nor  inscribed  upon  regi 
mental  banners  ;  but  one  of  which  every  young  subal 
tern  and  "old  mustache"  in  the  service  was  justly 
proud.  After  that  night  the  newest  fledged  cadet  from 
West  Point  never  touched  a  pack  of  cards  in  the  pres 
ence  of  base  civilians  without  some  knowing  reference  to 
that  game,  —  "  where  old  Ben  Beall  and  little  Phil  Kearny 
taught  those  '  nobs '  in  Washington  a  few  army  points  "  ; 
or,  "You  have  heard,  of  course,  of  that  night  at  the 
Congressional  when  the  last  rubber  was  played  at  thou 
sand-dollar  points  ;  when  the  arm}7,  from  the  general-in- 
chief  down,  backed  their  players  with  every  cent  they 
could  raise.  Why,  they  say  old  S.  bet  W.  of  Massa 
chusetts  a  3Tear's  salaiy  in  advance.  C.,  one  of  the 
Congressional  champions,  mortgaged  his  plantation  the 
next  day  to  take  up  his  I.  O.  U's.  They've  fought  shy 
Of  the  army  ever  since." 

The  first  rubber  was  finished,  and  the  host,  in  a  testy 


126  BABY  RUE. 


way,  that  showed  the  loser's  temper,  although  it  did  not 
conquer  his  hospitalit}*,  was  mixing  a  generous  bowl  of 
steaming  punch,  throwing  occasional  expletives  at  his 
late  partner,  who  persistently  tried  to  explain. 

"  If  3'ou  had  understood  my  play,  and  forced  trumps 
once  more,  then  my  long  suit  at  spades  was  good  for 
the  odd." 

"  Damn  your  long  suit !  Beall  played  after  you.  He 
had  a  fist  full  of  little  trumps,  and  trumped  spades  every 
time.  You  cut  my  hand  like  hell  all  through  the  game." 

Then,  relenting  in  temper,  and  anxious  to  make 
amende  without  formal  apology,  he  turned  to  their  smil 
ing  opponent,  the  ideal  cavalry-man  of  his  time. 

"I  sa}',  Beall,  sing  us  one  of  your  old  Florida 
songs  while  the  punch  is  brewing.  Old  McKenzie  at 
Fort  Snelling  taught  me  this  Scotch  brew.  It's  the 
secret  of  '  Ours.'  I  '11  bet  you  a  cool  hundred  there 
isn't  a  man  in  the  Second,  unless  it's  some  fellow 
transferred  from  the  First,  can  compound  such  a  bowl 
of  nectar." 

"  I  will  sing  the  song  and  take  the  bet.  It's  the  only 
way  to  harmonize  you  with  that  unluckj-  partner  of 
yours.  Why,  the  poor  fellow  is  in  a  cold  sweat  with 
the  tickle  of  3'our  sugar}-  compliments." 

"  Damn  his  sweat,  —  and  his  spades!"  growled  the 
colonel.  "  Let  us  have  the  song."  And  the  half- 
smothered  laugh  hushed  as  the  beau  subreur  began. 

"Wrapt  in  his  blanket,  the  soldier  is  sleeping 
Under  the  stars,  and  the  pale  crescent  moon  ; 

Out  in  the  hummock  his  brother  is  keeping 
Watch,  near  the  slumbrous  and  silent  lagoon. 

Far  to  the  North  is  the  home  of  their  mother, 
Set  where  the  hills  catch  the  song  of  the  streams. 

She  prays  for  the  picket ;  she  weeps  for  his  brother, 
Who  laughs  with  his  love  in  the  Palace  of  Dreams. 

A  whir  in  the  air  !     The  picket  is  lying 
Prone  on  the  moss.     Is  he  taking  his  rest  ? 

A  bird  —  an  arrow  —  which  was  it  came  flying  ? 
Smnething  is  sheltered  or  sheathed  in  his  breast. 


BABY  RUE.  127 


The  camp-fire  flashes,  the  red  cedanvood  gleams, 
As  the  scarlet  flame  catches  the  glistening  bark  ; 

The  soldier  still  sleeps  in  his  Palace  of  Dreams, 

Though  some  one  is  stirring,  out  there  in  the  dark. 

From  hummock,  and  swamp,  and  Everglade  islands, 
War-whoop  and  shot  wake  the  slumbrous  lagoon. 

Two  hearts  are  desolate  there  in  the  highlands, 
Two  sleepers  are  sleeping  here  'neath  the  moon. 

There  was  a  pathos  in  the  manner  of  the  singer,  a 
thrilling  quality  in  the  round,  full  notes  of  the  splendid 
baritone,  that  was  magical  in  effect.  Sung  as  only  Ben 
Beall  could  sing  an  army  ballad,  the  words  made  a  pic 
ture  every  shade  of  which  was  distinct  and  palpable  to 
these  rough  fighters.  There  was  no  outburst  of  ap 
plause,  no  claque;  not  only  no  prodigalitj',  but  no 
expression  of  compliment.  The  sentiment  of  soldiers 
is  usually  best  defined  in  action  ;  yet  they  understood 
each  other,  and  the  musician  could  read  the  effect  of  his 
song  in  the  uneasy  scrape  of  a  heav}T  cavalry-boot  or  the 
sonorous  blow  of  some  arched  proboscis.  The  colonel 
had  forgotten  his  brew,  and  sat  glowering  in  the  fire, 
with  a  look  on  his  face  that  told 

"  From  the  present  back  to  the  past, 
There  is  only  a  step  to  be  made." 

A  break  to  his  reverie  came  in  the  ringing  clink  of 
spurs,  as  steps  hurried  up,  on,  and  across  the  porch  to 
the  door,  left  partly  open  to  dispel  the  heavy  currents  of 
tobacco-smoke.  The  colonel  looked  up. 

"  Come  in,  Moore.  Yon  and  Carson  are  too  late  for 
the  first  rubber.  If  you  had  been  my  partner  —  But 
what  is  it,  Moore  ?  You  have  brought  a  regular  death's- 
head  to  the  feast.  What  the  devil  is  up?  Nothing,  I 
hope,  with  the  Leszinkskys?  Mrs.  Leszinksky  has  been 
looking  ill  lately.  But  I  see  here  is  Randall :  he  would 
be  there  if  anything  was  wrong.  AVhy  don't  you  speak? 
What  the  hell  is  it  that  you  fear  to  say  ?  " 

B}r  this  time  there  was  a  general  stir :  the  officers 
clustered  around  the  late  comers,  faces  darkened,  and 
hands  instinctively  clutched  for  the  absent  sword-hilts. 


128  BABY  RUE. 


Hurriedly  the  story  was  told.  Before  the  telling  was 
over,  the  colonel  was  beset  with  impetuous  offers  from 
volunteers.  There  were  prayerful  entreaties,  empha 
sized  by  deep  oaths,  that  he  would  let  them  go  at 
once. 

All  the  old  devotion  of  the  regiment  to  the  fair 
woman  who  had  come  to  them  a  bride ;  their  affection 
for  and  pride  in  the  stainless  gentleman,  so  modestly 
upright,  so  fearlessly  true,  who  now  suffered  from  this 
cruel  blow,  were  intensified  and  made  more  personal  from 
their  feeling  of  proprietorship  in  the  baby  born  in  camp. 
To  the  married  officers  she  seemed  one  of  their  own ; 
to  the  homeless  subalterns  she  was  the  representative  of 
all  the}-  had  left  in  those  distant  rose-gardens  of  Para 
dise,  now  dimly  seen  through  the  mists  of  fraternal  and 
filial  memories. 

The  story  of  her  danger  seemed  to  blot  out  all  other 
claim.  She  was  their  first  duty.  She  needed  them. 
To  the  dullest  imagination,  the  picture  of  the  little 
prisoner  out  there  in  the  forest  was  vivid  and  distinct. 
They  saw  the  child  in  her  pain  and  grief  and  anger. 
Even  then  there  came  a  grim  smile,  as  they  thought  of 
her  passionate  temper,  her  power  of  endurance,  her  elfin 
imperiousness.  Then  there  was  a  longing  agony  to  be 
off  on  the  trail ;  to  take  her  from  the  blood-stained 
hands  of  her  captoi*s,  if  it  cost  the  lives  of  the  entire 
regiment.  Not  an  officer  there  would  have  held  his 
life  at  an  instant's  value,  if  he  could  have  bought  her 
safety  with  that  price. 

The  only  question  was,  "Who  would  stay  in  the  garri 
son?  Universal  outcry  settled  that.  All  who  were  there 
to  hear  the  story  must  go.  There  were  others  in  the 
cantonment,  —  "•  Les  absens  ont  toujours  tort"  —  they 
might  stay.  The  colonel  was  carried  in  this  rush  of 
feeling.  Yes,  they  might  come,  —  the  captains  present, 
—  with  their  companies.  Well,  yes  :  the  .young  subal 
terns  whose  captains  were  so  unlucky  as  to  be  absent 
might  come  as  volunteers.  He  himself  would  leave 
Wliarton  in  command.  Wharton  was  ailing,  and  Mason 
would  return  before  another  week. 


BABY  RUE.  129 


To  this  there  could  be  no  dissenting  voice.  Even 
Major  Beall,  the  guest,  who  had  taken  the  last  week  of 
his  leave  to  spend  Christmas  with  the  1st,  before  rejoin 
ing  General  Tajior  in  Texas,  now  insisted  that  his  near 
est  route  to  his  command  was  the  path  taken  by  the 
marauders. 

All  night  long  there  was  the  tramp  of  horses,  the  clank 
of  sabres,  the  ring  of  spurs,  —  the  hundred  noises  that 
told  of  hurried  preparation.  The  dawning  light  of  the 
Christmas  Day  saw  the  rear-guard  of  the  expedition, 
with  its  line  of  wagons  and  pack-mules,  leave  the  fort. 
The  advance  column  of  Captain  Moore's  company  — 
escorting  the  colonel  and  his  staff,  with  whom  rode  Major 
Beall  —  had  left  at  midnight.  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Page  had 
gone  with  the  doctor  and  the  guard  sent  to  Bouie's 
Hill. 

Margaret  was  sleeping  when  Leszinksky  and  his  little 
party  left.  The  kindly  drug  had  released  her  tempo 
rarily  from  the  bondage  of  sorrow.  The  healing  of 
sleep  had  come  to  the  worn  body  and  racked  mind. 
Nature  had  opportunity  to  renew  the  strength  that  would 
be  so  sorely  tried  when  consciousness  returned. 

With  the  earliest  light  of  day  came  to  Bouie's  Hill  the 
wives  of  Leszinksky's  comrades.  Later,  as  the  needs 
of  their  daily  life  let  them,  one  by  one  came  the  women 
of  the  garrison,  —  the  veriest  termagant  and  virago 
among  them  softened  into  gentle  speech  through  the 
wide-reaching  magnetism  of  sorrowing  motherhood. 
Women,  weeping  silently  in  the  house  as  consciousness 
came  to  the  sufferer  in  that  darkened  chamber,  as  she 
moaned  for  her  child,  and  would  not  be  comforted ; 
women  on  the  porch ;  others  out  in  the  grounds,  stand 
ing  in  groups  with  children  in  their  arms,  were  drawn 
into  the  fold  of  a  common  sisterhood  ~by  their  sympa 
thy  for  the  stricken  mother.  How  true,  how  deep, 
how  sincere  the  sympathy,  I  need  not  try  to  tell. 
Not  a  woman  in  all  this  land  can  fail  to  remember  the 
painful  shock,  the  quick  thrill  of  agony,  that  made  the 
grief  of  one  family  the  common  grief  of  the  nation. 
Even  now,  when  years  have  come  and  gone  without  lift- 
9 


130  BABY  RUE. 


ing  the  veil  of  that  myster}T,  there  are  mother-hearts  in 
all  the  length  and  breadth  of  the  land  that  ache  with  the 
burden  of  their  helpless  sympathy,  whenever  the  thought 
of  that  lost  child  is  uncovered  in  the  treasure-house  of 
memor}^  where  it  lies,  only  half-hidden  by  the  daily  fears 
and  hopes  of  life. 


PART  V. 

THE  PURSUIT. 


FOR  one  fair  vision  ever  fled 

day  and  night, 

And  still  we  follow'd  where  she  led. 

TENNYSOX. 


PART  V. 

THE  PURSUIT. 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

A  STOIC  of  the  woods,  a  man  without  a  tear. 

CAMPBELL. 

THE  sagacity  of  the  frontiersman  had  read  as  plainly 
as  from  the  lines  of  a  printed  page  the  history  of 
the  affray  at  Castalar's.  Baby  Rue  was  the  only  pris 
oner  the  Indians  had  taken.  An  impulse  of  admiration 
for  the  courage  of  the  little  child,  who,  with  unquailing 
look,  silently  struck  at  Lo-loch-to-hoo-la  with  her  tiny 
fist,  as  he  snatched  her  from  the  sheltering  logs,  saved 
her  from  instant  death.  Stephen's  dauntless  self-devo 
tion  was  another  factor  in  the  count.  The  only  little 
eaglet  left  of  such  a  brood  was  worth  a  warrior's  keep 
ing.  Courage  is  first  and  all  in  the  list  of  Indian  vir 
tues ;  if  we 'had  time,  it  would  be  instructive  to  study 
the  abstract  question  of  how  many  qualities  it  is  made 
to  represent  in  the  mind  of  the  red  man. 

The  blood  that  had  come  to  our  little  heroine  through 
the  centuries,  instinct  with  the  haughty  resolution  and 
unyielding  will  of  Milosch-Kabilovitsch,  served  her  at 
need.  The  finer  courage  of  the  gentle  Leszinksky 
would  not  have  saved  her.  The  fierce,  aggressive 
spirit  of  the  vengeful  voyvode  was  more  easil}'  under 
stood  and  more  highly  valued  by  the  savage.  Thus  it 
happened  that  a  chief  on  the  war-path  charged  himself 
with  the  burden  of  the  brave  little  child,  who  was  now 
his  own  by  right  of  capture. 

The  trail  followed  by  the  Indians  crossed  from  the 


134  BABY  RUE. 


headwaters  of  the  San  Bois,  leaving  Tisson's  camp  sev 
eral  miles  to  the  left,  to  the  headwaters  of  the  Kiame- 
sha  (or  Kimishi)  River.  At  the  junction  of  its  three 
principal  branches,  in  a  secluded,  rocky  little  valley,  hid 
by  the  lofty  ridges  that  bordered  the  river,  the  party 
made  its  first  halt,  and  was  speedily  joined  by  detach 
ments  returning  from  equally  successful  raids  upon  the 
outlying  settlements  on  the  hills  down  the  Kiamesha  to 
Varner's  ranch  in  the  Red  River  valle}',  almost  within 
sound  of  the  guns  at  Fort  Towson. 

From  the  highest  summit  of  the  ridge,  which  was  bare 
of  all  growth  save  a  fantastically  trimmed  tree,  —  a 
beacon  of  the  Osages,  —  the  Indians  sent  up  balloon- 
shaped  columns  of  smoke  to  warn  the  stragglers  of  the 
part}'  of  their  retreat.  This  is  the  red  man's  s}-stem  of 
telegraphy.  He  builds  a  small  fire,  which  is  not  allowed 
to  blaze,  then  piles  an  armful  of  partial!}-  green  weeds 
over  the  fire  to  smother  it ;  thus  a  dense  smoke  is  cre 
ated.  Having  established  his  current,  the  Indian  oper 
ator  confines  it  by  spreading  over  it  his  blanket ;  with 
one  assistant  he  can  cut  off'  or  almost  wholly  confine  the 
smoke.  Waiting  until  it  begins  to  escape  from  the  sides, 
then  suddenly  withdrawing  the  blanket,  a  beautiful,  bal 
loon-shaped  column  puff's  upward,  the  smoke  alternately 
interrupted  and  released  until  successive  puffs  ascend  in 
regular  order. 

This  warning  given,  the  war  party  was  soon  in  motion. 
Leaving  the  valley  of  the  Kiamesha  directly  behind,  they 
rapidly  pressed  on  westward  to  the  headwaters  of  the 
Bogg}',  in  order  to  cross  the  Washita  above  Wild  Horse 
Creek  ;  whence  the  trail  led  south  of  the  Witchita  Moun 
tains,  where  they  could  rely  upon  Comanche  reinforce 
ments  as  well  as  aid  from  the  Mexicans,  who,  since 
General  Taylor's  occupation  of  Texas,  had  jealousl}' 
watched  the  border.  The  Indians  felt  sure  of  one  day's 
advance  of  an}'  pursuers  who  might  follow.  Their  work 
had  been  well  done,  —  none  had  escaped  to  tell  the  tale 
of  slaughter :  so  one  day's  advance  was  secure  to  them. 
Afterwards,  their  superior  knowledge  of  the  countiy, 
and  the  rapidity"  of  their  movement,  would  distance  a 
hesitating  enemy. 


THE  PURSUIT.  135 


We  know  how  false  would  have  been  their  hope  of  a 
day's  start,  if  Tisson's  black  bottle  had  not  befriended 
them.  Bob  Stearns  on  their  trail,  and  Tisson  at  Fort 
Gibson  on  the  morning  of  the  twenty-fourth,  their  detour 
to  the  Kiamesha  would  have  cost  them  dear.  The  bat 
tle  would  have  been  at  the  crossing  of  the  Middle  Boggy, 
the  apex  of  a  triangle  of  which  Fort  Towson  and  old 
Fort  Washita  would  have  been  the  base.  The  dragoons 
would  have  had  them  hip  and  thigh.  Unfortunately, 
Tisson's  bottle  had  bridged  the  Middle  Boggy :  so  that 
promising  equation  was  lost. 

At  sundown,  the  evening  of  the  twenty-fourth,  they 
crossed  the  Middle  Boggy,  and  after  a  few  hours'  rest 
were  again  in  motion,  turning  northward  toward  the 
divide  of  the  Canadian  from  the  Washita.  On  Christ 
mas  Day  they  were  beyond  the  headwaters  of  the  Boggy, 
and  now,  feeling  secure  from  pursuit  that  night,  turned 
aside  from  their  direct  route  to  find  a  resting  place  for 
the  coming  day  in  a  broad  and  fertile  prairie  which  ex 
tends  into  the  sand-hills  of  the  Canadian,  and  where  the 
Blue  River  has  its  source. 

All  this  time  Rue  had  borne  herself  bravely.  She 
had  kicked  and  fought,  as  Tisson  saw,  until  she  had 
nearly  exhausted  the  patience  of  her  captor.  Fortu 
nately,  she  was  so  worn  and  tired  that  she  fell  asleep 
at  the  critical  moment,  when  longer  dispute  might  have 
been  dangerous.  The  charm  of  the  helpless  sleeping 
child  completed  the  conquest  her  courage  had  begun. 
The  rude  warrior  rode  apart  from  the  party,  half- 
ashamed  of  the  care  he  gave  her;  yet  all  the  time 
she  was  stealing  heB  way  into  the  heart  upon  which 
she  rested.  One  thought  of  the  white  man,  which  had 
heretofore  been  the  most  bitter  grudge  he  held,  —  the 
remembrance  of  the  death  of  his  children  by  the  fatal 
disease  brought  to  his  wigwam  that  summer  the  traders 
had  spread  the  small-pox  through  the  Indian  country,  — 
won  the  child  his  affection.  The  last  one  he  lost  was 
her  age,  a  fearless  "  chincha,"  always  delighted  and 
happy  when  he  returned  from  the  hunt  or  the  war-path. 
S/te  had  died  in  his  arms,  with  her  head  on  his  heart, 


136  BABY  RUE. 


just  as  this  little  one  was  lying.  The  touch  of  nature 
that  makes  the  whole  world  kin  thrilled  his  pulse.  In 
the  gathering  gloom  the  strong,  sinew}'  arm  held  her 
tenderly,  changing  her  position  from  time  to  time  with 
wonderful  thoughtfulness  for  so  rude  a  nurse. 

There  would  have  been  thanksgiving,  not  despair,  at 
Bouie's  Hill  could  Tisson  have  read  and  told  the  thoughts 
of  the  dusky  warrior  who  passed  him  in  the  gloaming. 

During  the  following  day's  ride  the  child's  temper, 
resistant  as  it  was,  yielded  to  the  seduction  of  novelty. 
There  were  surprise  and  curiosity,  but  —  as  her  pro 
tector  noticed  with  gratified  pride  —  no  fear  in  the 
glance  with  which  she  regarded  these  wild  horsemen. 
Once  she  laughed  outright,  a  child's  sweet,  clear, 
musical  laugh,  at  the  curvetings  of  a  vicious  pony 
which  a  gayly  bedecked  Indian  was  breaking  to  the 
heavy  Mexican  curb.  From  that  moment  Lo-loch-to- 
hoo-la  was  her  slave.  The  laugh  was  the  rippling  laugh 
of  the  little  "  chincha."  The  Great  Spirit  had  given 
him  back  the  darling  of  his  wigwam.  At  the  next  halt, 
the  child,  who  had  hitherto  refused  the  food  he  offered, 
ate  heartily.  After  this  he  had  no  difficulty  with  her : 
and  so  her  Christmas  dinner  was  a  feast  with  Lo-loch- 
to-hoo-la.  Then  she  slept  the  unbroken  sleep  of  a 
tired,  healthy  child,  through  the  long  night-ride  which 
brought  them  near  the  desired  camping  ground. 

As  they  crossed  the  last  bold,  billow}7  roll  that 
screened  it,  the  advance  party  saw  buffalo  feeding  in 
the  prairie  where  they  intended  to  rest.  It  was  the 
crowning  good  fortune  of  their  daring  and  successful 
raid.  They  had  captured  horses  and  arms  and  scalps 
in  great  numbers ;  but  the  Comanches,  whom  they 
were  on  their  way  to  join,  would  have  driven  the 
buffalo  from  the  country  where  they  were  to  await  the 
movement  of  their  Mexican  allies.  Now,  at  the  very 
moment  of  need,  they  could  have  food  for  the  taking, 
with  ever}-  circumstance  in  their  favor. 

They  were  leeward  of  the  herd,  —  no  small  point  of 
advantage.  The  prairie  on  the  west  and  north  was  encir 
cled  by  steep  sand-hills,  through  which  the  only  exit  was 


THE  PURSUIT.  137 


up  the  pebbly  bed  of  the  creek  in  the  little  narrow 
ravine  where  Blue  River  has  its  source.  The  plan  of 
attack  was  simple.  Into  the  narrow  gorge  the  buffalo 
must  be  driven ;  and,  keeping  out  of  sight  as  much  as 
possible,  their  best  marksmen  were  placed  in  every 
little  hollow  and  cleft,  whilst  the  "  runners,"  mounted 
on  fleet  ponies,  and  armed  only  with  bows  and  arrows, 
moved  slowly  and  cautiously  southward.  When  within 
the  right  distance  a  signal  was  given,  and  they  all 
opened  at  once,  like  a  pack  of  hounds,  in  a  full  chorus 
of  yells,  dashing  up  to  the  herd,  and  skilfully  driving 
them  to  the  desired  point,  —  the  cows  in  headlong 
panic,  whilst  an  occasional  bull  would  turn  for  an 
instant,  with  a  frantic  rush  upon  his  pursuers,  thus 
gallantly  giving  the  weaker  time  to  escape.  All  the 
time,  these  perfect  horsemen  of  the  plains  were  whirl 
ing  and  coursing  among  the  frightened  herd,  selecting 
with  the  quick  judgment  of  the  hunter  the  fattest  and 
j-oungest  for  their  victims,  frequently  killing  a  cow  with 
a  single  arrow,  yet  always  directing  the  movement  of 
the  herd  to  the  desired  point,  where  the  ambush  waited. 
There,  at  length,  the  slaughter  ceased,  from  very  weari 
ness  in  killing.  The  run  of  the  hunt  being  over,  the 
Indians  proceeded  to  dispatch  the  animals  they  had 
disabled  ;  then,  cutting  up  the  carcasses,  they  brought 
loads  of  meat  to  the  camp,  where  the  choicest  pieces 
were  soon  roasted,  and  a  cramming  Indian  feast 
began. 

In  the  attack  upon  Castalar's  Valley,  Lo-loch-to- 
hoo-la  had  been  one  of  the  part}'  at  the  corral  when  the 
massacre  began.  In  a  fight  with  dragoons  on  the  Mis 
souri  he  had  learned  the  value  of  an  American  horse ; 
consequently,  to  him  "  Emperor  "  was  a  prize  to  be  won. 
It  was  the  only  one  he  claimed  in  the  division  of  booty 
which  was  made  at  the  ranch.  The  gra}T  stallion  was 
one  of  the  strongest  and  fleetest  horses  on  the  frontier : 
of  mixed  breed,  he  had  the  speed  and  game  qualities  of 
the  thoroughbred,  united  to  the  endurance  and  staying 
power  of  the  wild  mustang  of  the  plains. 

Burdened  with  his  little    captive,   Lo-loch-to-hoo-la 


138  BABY  RUE. 


had  thought  best  to  ride  his  trained  war-pony  until  he 
should  be  free  to  try  conclusions  with  his  newly-acquired 
steed ;  so  it  happened  that  Emperor  had  been  haltered 
with  the  drove  until  the  last  stop  before  turning  aside  to 
seek  the  desired  camp.  At  that  halt  it  had  been  decided 
by  the  chiefs  to  send  on,  with  a  party  of  the  younger 
warriors,  their  long  train  of  captured  animals  and  the 
boys  who  were  driving  them,  that  in  event  of  pursuit 
they  might  be  free  to  fight  or  retreat  unencumbered. 
The  pony  that  had  carried  Lo-loch-to-hoo-la  so  far  had 
begun  to  flag.  A  change  must  be  made.  At  his  com 
mand  one  of  the  drivers  untied  Emperor  from  the  line 
to  which  he  was  haltered,  and  led  him  to  the  chief.  At 
first  the  horse  was  restive  and  unruly,  turning  to  eye  the 
horseman  who  was  directing  the  arrangement  of  the 
Comanche  saddle  and  its  trappings ;  when  suddenly, 
with  a  snort  of  recognition,  he  gentty  stooped  his  head, 
as  the  little  child  in  the  warrior's  arms  held  out  her  tiny 
hand  and  gravely  rubbed  his  face.  It  was  a  caress  to 
which  he  was  accustomed.  Stephen  had  often  taken 
her  to  ride  on  Emperor,  and  had  taught  her  this  mode 
of  salutation.  The  chief  had  no  further  difficult}'  with 
the  stallion,  which  had  alwa3~s  been  proudly  obedient 
to  and  gentle  with  the  children  seated  upon  his  back, 
although  he  had  invariably  disputed  supremacy  with  any 
luckless  negro  who  chose  or  was  ordered  to  mount  him. 
When  the  buffalo  chase  began  the  chief  had  declined 
to  join  it,  merely  riding  to  the  top  of  the  ridge,  where 
the  eager  horse  he  rode  was  more  amenable  to  restraint 
than  the  excited  child,  who  laughed  and  shouted  with 
delight  at  what  she  evidently  regarded  as  a  charming 
pla}-  in  the  valley  before  her.  During  their  two  da_ys' 
journe}',  Lo-loch-to-hoo-la,  with  the  quick  observation 
of  the  Indian,  had  noticed  the  glances  of  his  compan 
ions,  first  at  him,  then  at  each  other,  as  they  watched 
his  gentle  care  of  the  little  captive.  From  surprise  their 
looks  had  changed  to  scorn  ;  then  a  sullen,  contemptuous 
manner  or  rude  laugh  when,  at  their  halts,  he  attended 
to  the  child's  comfort  marked  their  disapproval  of  his 
conduct.  The  leaven  of  discontent  had  spread.  Even 


THE  PURSUIT.  139 


the  young  braves  and  the  bo}'  drivers  gave  him  hesitat 
ing  obedience.  He  was  now  about  to  have  a  more 
decided  proof  of  the  disapproval  of  the  baud. 

The  warrior  was  holding  Rue  firmly  as  she  stood  up 
to  watch  the  hunt,  with  one  hand  caught  in  the  broad 
sash  which  tied  the  waist  of  the  soft  but  now  soiled 
dress,  when  an  arrow  cut  through  the  folds  of  the  skirt 
•which  the  breeze  had  expanded.  It  had  passed  between 
him  and  the  child  :  it  could  scarcely  be  an  accident.  All 
doubt  was  dispelled  at  the  instant,  for  a  second  arrow 
touched  the  topmost  arch  of  Emperor's  neck ;  he  had 
slightly  moved  at  the  moment  the  bolt  was  sped,  and 
thus  saved  the  child,  who,  as  it  was  now  evident,  was 
the  mark  aimed  at. 

The  horse  reared  and  plunged,  for  the  skin  was  cut, 
but  the  curb  was  pulled,  and  then,  with  a  slight  touch 
of  the  huge  Mexican  spurs  and  a  turn  of  the  muscular 
wrist,  he  was  reined  round  and  made  to  leap  down  the 
ascent  just  as  a  dozen  arrows  passed  harmless!}'  above 
his  rider.  A  derisive  burst  of  laughter,  as  some  one 
cried,  "  The  old  squaw  must  keep  her  pappoose  out  of 
the  war-path."  was  another  evidence  of  the  intent  that 
had  speeded  those  arrows. 

For  the  last  twenty-four  hours  he  had  understood  that 
a  demand  would  soon  be  made  for  her  life.  It  had  been 
settled  they  should  take  no  prisoners.  He  had  violated 
the  compact  when  he  spared  the  child.  The  first  day 
the  thought  had  come  that  he  might  have  to  give  her  up 
to  death  if  the  chiefs  demanded  it  of  him  ;  even  then 
he  had  resolved  that  her  death  should  be  quick  and 
painless  —  that  much  at  least  he  would  do  for  her  ;  in 
no  way  should  she  be  tortured  or  subjected  to  their  cruel 
sport.  The  second  da}',  as  the  wild  imaginings  of  the 
superstitious  savage  identified  her  with  the  dead  "  chin- 
elm,"  he  resolved  to  save  her  at  all  cost,  — to  save  her, 
even  if  it  brought  him  the  disgrace  that  is  attached  to  a 
chief  who  leaves  his  tribe  on  the  war-path. 

The  time  had  come  sooner  than  he  expected,  yet  he 
was  not  unprepared.  The  change  of  horses  had  given 
him  a  fresh  one,  and  its  speed  and  endurance  he  felt  he 


140  BAB  Y  RUE. 


could  trust.  He  had  decided  to  leave  the  party  that 
night :  the  act  was  likely  to  be  forced  on  him  before  the 
sheltering  night  should  come  to  hide  the  course  of  the 
fugitive.  It  might  cost  him  his  life.  Well,  that  was 
nothing,  he  risked  death  daily  ;  but  he  must  make  sure 
that  she  did  not  live  after  him.  She  should  not  fall 
alive  into  the  hands  of  enemies  who  would  then  take 
double  delight  in  her  suffering.  But  he  would  save  her 
if  he  could.  He  would  even  bear  the  sting  of  this  last 
insult  without  resenting  it,  to  save  her.  Any  one  who 
knows  the  Indian  character  will  know  he  could  give  no 
costlier  proof  of  devotion. 

The  only  thing  now  was  to  gain  time.  It  was  mid 
day  :  if  he  could  only  avoid  dispute,  and  keep  the  child 
away  from  the  enemies  who  sought  her  life,  until  even 
ing,  when  the  hunt  and  the  cram  of  the  feast  would  be 
felt,  then  he  might  escape  with  her  unharmed.  He  had 
revolved  this  thought  in  his  mind  as  he  stood  some  dis 
tance  from  the  camp,  under  the  shelter  of  some  cotton- 
wood  trees. 

Rue  was  sitting  on  his  blanket  on  the  ground,  eating 
a  piece  of  the  bread  he  had  saved  from  the  provisions 
they  had  brought  from  'Castalar's.  She  broke  off  the 
half  and  handed  him,  saying,  in  her  imperious  wa}-, 
"  Eat  it !  eat  it !  "  with  a  gesture  that  made  him 
understand. 

To  gratify  her  he  took  it,  but  only  to  put  it  in  a 
pocket  he  had  contrived  in  the  flap  of  his  saddle,  where 
he  also  had  the  forethought  to  place  some  jerked  meat 
and  a  piece  of  roasted  beef  (the  last  of  Castalar's 
slaughtered  cattle)  he  had  cooked  for  her,  and  which 
she  had  evidently  relished  at  the  morning's  halt.  If  he 
had  to  leave  suddenly  they  were  provisioned  for  the 
flight.  He  was  ready.  His  quiver  full  of  arrows  was 
slung  on  his  back ;  his  bow  read}'  for  use  in  his  left 
hand ;  his  shield  on  his  arm ;  his  gun  in  a  buckskin 
cover  hung  at  the  pommel  of  his  saddle,  where  a  lasso 
was  coiled  and  two  folded  blankets  were  tied  with 
thongs.  Constantly  watching,  as  Emperor,  picketed 
near,  cropped  the  soft,  succulent  buffalo-grass,  he  saw 


THE  PURSUIT.  141 


even"  movement  of  the  hunters  as  they  returned  to  camp 
with  their  loads  of  meat. 

After  a  time  Rue  fell  asleep,  and  he  carefully  rolled 
her  in  the  blanket  on  which  she  was  tying,  folding  it  in 
such  a  manner  that  her  head  was  safely  covered,  though 
an  opening  was  left  through  which  the  fair  little  face 
was  visible. 

The  rays  of  the  setting  sun  came  aslant  the  ridge  that 
divided  the  little  hollow,  in  which  was  the  camp,  from 
the  hunting  ground  of  the  wide  prairie.  The  chiefs  and 
warriors  were  grouped  around  the  fires  there  to  the  south 
about  five  hundred  }-ards  below  Lo-loch-to-hoo-la,  in  the 
hollow.  Behind  them  to  the  east  was  the  country  they 
had  devastated.  By  this  time  their  enemies  were  aroused : 
the  avengers  were  now,  or  soon  would  be,  on  their  track. 
Lo-loch-to-hoo-la's  judgment  would  have  opposed  any 
delay  before  crossing  the  Washita,  where  Senaco  and  his 
band  of  Comanches  were  to  join  them,  —  but  his  opinion 
had  not  been  asked.  At  their  last  halt  the  chiefs  had 
conferred  apart  from  him.  With  the  child  in  his  arms 
he  could  not  claim  his  place  in  council ;  and  deprived  of 
his  care  she  would  not  have  been  safe  an  instant.  Even 
then,  he  had  been  forced  in  a  measure  to  surrender  the 
interests  of  his  tribe  to  her  safety.  If  he  had  spoken, 
if  he  had  urged  the  danger  of  pursuit,  that  moment  the 
child's  life  would  have  been  demanded  of  him.  So  the 
warrior's  supremac}'  was  lost ;  the  chief  tacitly  resigned 
his  leadership.  He  knew  that  if  he  claimed  either,  he 
must  pay  the  price  of  a  life  he  held  above  his  own. 
There  was  nothing  he  could  do  but  fly  with  her ;  and 
the  only  possible  path  of  escape  was  up  the  pebbly  bed 
of  the  little  creek  in  the  ravine  where  the  hunt  had 
ended. 

There  was  a  movement  in  the  groups  down  \>y  the 
fires,  and  at  that  distance  the  keen  sight  of  the  Indian 
saw  they  were  watching  him.  The  time  had  come. 
To  delay  them  he  must  take  the  initiative.  Their  best 
ponies  were  blown  with  the  chase,  whilst  Emperor  had 
been  fed  at  the  morning's  halt  with  corn  from  the  pack- 
train,  and  now  was  fresh  and  rested.  That  long  after- 


142  BABY  RUE. 


noon's  grazing  would  tell  when  he  came  to  measure  the 
miles  with  flying  feet. 

The  chief  lifted  Rue  carefully,  then  vaulting  upon 
Emperor's  back  laid  her  on  the  folded  blankets  he  had 
tied  to  the  pommel.  Under  and  around  the  blankets 
and  her,  he  coiled  the  lasso  of  twisted  horsehair  until  it 
made  a  network  that  held  her  firmly  and  securely  across 
the  saddle. 

The  groups  by  the  fires  separated,  and  the  warriors 
scattered  in  parties  of  two  and  three.  Did  they  suspect 
his  intent? 

He  rode  slowly  up  the  ascent  which  overlooked  the 
prairie,  turning  his  horse  in  the  direction  of  the  camp, 
and  then  stopping  as  if  to  look  at  the  scene  of  the  hunt. 
Thus,  without  seeming  to  watch,  he  could  see  every 
movement  at  the  camp  and  in  the  prairie  to  the  south, 
where  the  ponies  were  grazing  by  the  creek.  Two  or 
three  of  the  scattered  parties  were  coming  up  the  hol 
low,  others  sauntered  on  the  ridge  and  down  toward  the 
creek.  That  was  enough.  There  was  no  doubt  now 
that  the  demand  was  to  be  made  and  enforced.  What 
else  but  a  thirst  for  blood  could  draw  those  convives  from 
the  feast  that  was  preparing?  Slowly  he  turned  to  the 
creek  :  his  last  look  over  the  ridge  as  he  crossed  showed 
the  warriors  who  had  started  up  the  hollow  rapidly 
climbing  the  ascent  behind  him,  whilst  below  them  was 
a  quick  movement  of  the  others  out  on  the  prairie 
southward.  At  the  creek  he  paused  to  let  Emperor 
drink.  Again  the  warriors  behind  him  stopped,  while 
the  movement  to  the  south  was  hastened.  Yes  ;  the}7 
suspected  his  intended  flight ;  but  they  supposed  it  would 
be  across  the  Washita  to  Senaco's  camp,  or  still  farther, 
to  the  Comanche  village.  The}7  had  never  thought  of 
that  bold  venture  into  the  Canadian  Hills,  and  then  north 
ward  through  the  country  of  their  foes,  the  Osages,  to 
the  trackless  wilderness  of  the  salt  plains,  where  winter 
had  commenced  in  earnest.  He  was  quick  to  take  ad 
vantage  of  their  error  :  he  turned  again  toward  the  ridge. 
The  few  warriors  who  were  on  it  disappeared  down  the 
hollow. 


THE  PURSUIT.  143 


The  path  to  the  ravine  was  clear.  This  time  Emperor 
was  turned  northward  at  a  more  rapid  pace.  The  war 
riors  near  the  ponies  hesitated.  Ever}'  instant  was  gain 
to  Lo-loch-to-hoo-la.  A  lew  moments  and  he  would  be 
in  the  ravine  with  even'  advantage  of  the  start.  But 
the  path  was  to  be  disputed.  Two  of  the  Indians  had 
gone  entirely  up  the  hollow  to  watch  his  movements 
from  a  ledge  in  the  hills  near  the  entrance  to  the  ravine. 
They  climbed  this  ledge  just  as  Lo-loch-to-hoo-la  turned 
his  head  to  see  if  he  was  pursued.  He  saw  the  Indians 
in  the  prairie  running  and  mounting  in  hot  haste,  and 
then  turning  to  pursue  his  course,  there,  not  twenty  feet 
from  him,  on  the  ledge  to  the  right,  were  La-doo-ke-a 
and  Non-je-ning-go,  two  chiefs  of  the  allied  bands  of 
Ottoes  who  had  most  openly  shown  their  contempt  and 
disapproval  of  his  conduct.  In  fact,  it  was  Non-je- 
ning-go  who  had  called  after  him  so  insultingly  that 
morning,  and  now,  to  emphasize  the  insult,  repeated  it, 
with  an  imperious  wave  of  his  tomahawk,  and  an  order 
to  "  go  back  to  the  camp  and  at  once  give  up  the  white 
man's  medicine  child,  who  had  conjured  a  chief  into  an 
old  woman." 

This  last  insult  put  an  end  to  Lo-loch-to-hoo-la's  pa 
tience.  Snatching  his  tomahawk  from  where  it  hung  at 
his  belt,  he  sent  it  whizzing  through  the  air  at  the  very 
moment  that  of  Non-je-ning-go  was  thrown.  The  wea 
pons  met  mid-way,  and,  by  one  of  those  strange  chances 
in  which  bystanders  get  a  share  in  a  conflict,  one  shat 
tered  the  foot  of  Non-je-ning-go,  whilst  the  handle  of 
the  other  in  its  rebound  laid  La-doo-ke-a  senseless.  In 
the  very  act  of  throwing  his  tomahawk,  Lo-loch-to-hoo-la 
had  covered  the  sleeping  child  with  his  shield.  Except 
for  this  self-devotion  of  the  chief,  here  the  history  of  our 
heroine  would  have  ended ;  for  at  the  very  moment  of 
his  duelling  exchange  with  Non-je-ning-go,  a  warrior  on 
the  ridge  aimed  at  the  child  across  the  saddle  in  front 
of  the  chief,  hoping  thus  to  end  the  dissension  without 
the  loss  of  a  renowned  warrior,  whose  prowess  had  been 
proved  in  numberless  fights  with  the  "Long-knives." 
The  arrow  glanced  from  the  tough  buffalo-hide,  the  in- 


144  BABY  RUE. 


terposition  of  which  had  saved  the  sleeper,  but  cut  the 
arm  of  the  chief  who  held  the  shield.  At  this  point 
Emperor  took  it  upon  himself  to  end  the  unequal  com 
bat  :  a  plunging  leap  took  him  past  the  turn  of  the  hill, 
into  the  ravine.  Following  the  track  made  by  the  buffalo 
that  had  escaped  up  the  bed  of  the  now  nearly  dry 
creek,  Emperor  so  completely  distanced  his  pursuers 
that  at  the  end  of  an  hour's  ride  thejr  returned  sullenly 
to  camp. 


THE  PURSUIT.  145 


CHAPTER  XX. 

ATTEMPT  the  end,  and  never  stand  to  doubt: 
Nothing 's  so  hard  but  search  will  tind  it  out. 

HERRICK. 

LESZINKSKY  overtook  the  advance  party  with  Colonel 
Kearny  at  the  ford  of  the  Arkansas.  The  warm  grasp 
of  each  comrade's  hand  as  they  met  him  in  the  star 
light,  spoke  their  sympathies.  Colonel  Kearny  briefly 
introduced  Major  Beall. 

"  Leszinksky ,  here  is  Beall  of  the  2d.  You  know  him, 
if  you  have  not  met  before." 

"  Yes,  and  I  know  how  valuable  an  addition  he  is  to 
our  expedition.  Major,  I  do  not  need  to  thank  you  for 
your  kindness  in  coming  with  us.  I  knew  you  were  at 
the  fort,  and  when  the  news  of  this  outbreak  and  my  loss 
reached  me,  I  knew  }*ou  would  come." 

"Thank  yon,  Lieutenant,  for  3*our  kindly  judgment. 
I  am  only  too  glad  to  be  one  of  the  party  of  recapture, 
—  for  I  am  sure  we  shall  find  your  little  daughter  alive. 
The  very  fact  that  she  alone  was  spared  out  of  that  mas 
sacre  proves  that  for  some  reason  she  is  safe  with  her 
captors.  Moore  tells  me  he  has  with  him  the  best 
trailers  and  scouts  on  the  frontier :  that  is  all  important. 
Every  hour  gained  now  is  worth  more  than  we  can  es 
timate." 

' '  We  have  with  the  scouts  two  soldiers  of  your  old 
Florida  command." 

"Who  are  they?" 

"  A  giant  they  call  '  Pike,'  and  Bob  Stearns." 

"Yes,  I  recollect  them  well.  The  giant  is  the  most 
stolidly  brave  soldier  I  ever  knew.  Stearns  was  only 


146  BAB Y  RUE. 


a  boj-  then,  but  plucky  and  bright.  I  should  think  he 
would  have  made  an  excellent  scout." 

"  He  is  one  of  the  best  on  the  frontier.  He  would  have 
been  chief  of  scouts  long  ago,  but  for  his  one  fault.  I 
trust  he  will  overcome  that.  He  is  devotedl}7  attached 
to  my  little  daughter,  whose  life  he  once  saved.  He 
brought  us  the  news  of  the  attack  at  Castalar's." 

"  1  should  like  to  see  and  question  him." 

"  If  you  will  ride  forward  with  me,  Major.  He  is 
there  in  front." 

"An  instant.  Colonel,  may  I  serve  with  the  scouts? 
I  can  possibly  be  useful  with  them :  some  of  my  old 
Florida  men  are  in  the  corps." 

"  Certainly ;  where  you  choose.  Say,  Beall,  suppose 
you  take  command  of  a  squadron  when  our  troops  come 
up?  I  will  give  3'ou  Moore's  company,  the  scouts,  and 
our  Osage  allies.  You  understand  Indians,  and  Moore 
will  show  you,  if  we  overtake  those  scoundrels,  how  the 
1st  Dragoons  can  fight." 

"No,  give  Moore  the  squadron;  but  if  you  like  I 
will  be  glad  to  take  command  of  the  scouts  of  his 
party." 

"  Very  well,  if  you  prefer  that"  ;  and  the  colonel  rode 
with  Captain  Moore,  whilst  Beall  and  Leszinksky  passed 
on  rapidly  to  the  head  of  the  column. 

Some  distance  in  front  were  our  soldiers  and  Black 
Beaver ;  with  them  was  Oscar,  whose  tearful  entreaties 
to  come,  his  master  could  not  resist.  The  last  argu 
ment  had  been,  "  She  was  sony  fur  me  that  time,  an' 
she 'sail  I've  got  lef."  Bob's  cheeriness  and  bright 
spirits  had  vanished.  He  was  almost  as  silent  as  the 
taciturn  Pike.  An  occasional  question  from  Oscar  and 
answer  from  Black  Beaver  made  the  sole  conversation  of 
the  party.  As  the  two  officers  rode  up  Leszinksky 
said :  — 

"  Stearns,  here  is  your  old  Captain  of  the  2d, 
Major  Beall.  He  has  accepted  the  command  of  the 
scouts  and  my  detachment  for  this  expedition "  ;  and 
Leszinksky  rode  on,  questioning  Black  Beaver,  whilst 
Bob  saluted  his  old  captain. 


THE  PURSUIT.  147 


"  I  'm  mighty  glad  3'ou  're  with  us,  sir ;  Ieastwa3's  I 
would  be,  so  be  and  I  could  be  glad  of  anything  onct 
more.  You  see,  Capt'n, — beg  pardon,  sir,  Major  I 
oughter  a-said  —  this  accident  to  the  leftenant's  little 
one  is  part  my  fault,  and  if  anybody  can  holp  us  get  her 
outen  the  hands  of  them  cussed  redskins,  I  know  it's 
you,  sir.  I  ain't  forgot  that  scout  after  Waxehadjo ; 
and  how,  whenever  we  went  with  you  after  the  Semi- 
nolies,  down  thar  in  the  Big  Cypress,  we  always  got 
'em.  But,  Major,  these  Pawnees  is  wuss  'an  the  Semi- 
nolies." 

"  How  is  that,  Stearns?" 

"  They  ain't  so  gentlemanlike.  Now,  Osceola  was  a 
gentleman,  —  the  real  quality,  —  and  so  is  Coacoochee. 
I  saw  him  last  week.  But  these  Pawnees  has  larnt  the 
wust  parts  of  a  white  man  from  them  low-down,  white- 
livered  traders  as. is  sent  amongst  'em,  besides  bein' 
the  meanest  kind  o'  Injins.  The  most  of  thar  fightin' 
is  killin'  settlers  and  stealin'  bosses.  They  goes  in  for 
plunder.  Now,  the  Seminolies  is  genume  warriors. 
You  remember,  sir,  when  we  found  the  bodies  of  the 
dead  after  the}'  whipped  Major  Bade,  thar  wah  n't  a  ring 
or  a  watch  or  a  purse  even  took  from  'em.  They  fit 
like  gentlemen.  I  must  say  our  dragoons  themselves 
would  n't  a-done  as  well  by  the  killed.  We  're  most  apt 
to  fall  'ar  to  all  the  property  that 's  left." 

' '  You  say  you  saw  Coacoochee  last  week  ?  " 

"  Yes,  sir ;  I  was  over  thar  at  the  Seminolie  village 
with  Capt'n  Moore,  and  he  sent  me  and  Black  Beaver 
to  the  Washita  to  investegate  the  doin's  of  a  party  of 
young  Seminolie  braves  and  them  nigger  Injins  who  fit 
agin  us  in  Florida.  The  people  in  the  village  stuck  to 
it  they  was  out  on  a  hunt  down  by  the  Washita ;  but 
Black  Beaver  and  me  follered  thar  trail  nigh  a  week, 
and  if  it  wah  n't  a  war  party  I  'm  a  blamed  poor  judge  o' 
Injins." 

k'  Do  you  think  these  marauders  are  on  the  way  to 
join  them  ?  " 

' '  Yes,  sir ;  it  'pears  to  me  most  like  that,  though 
they  've  never  been  friends  with  the  Serninolies  before. 


148  BABY  RUE. 


But  this  here  fuss  that 's  a  comin'  with  Mexico  will  show 
before  it 's  done  what  kind  o'  neighbors  we  've  got  out 
here  on  the  plains.  These  border  Injins  '11  quit  tightin' 
one  another  any  time  to  lift  a  'Meriean  scalp.  You 
see,  sir,  they  're  mad  'cause  the  Government  keeps  a 
movin'  them.  So  be  and  I  was  a  Injin,  I  would  n't 
like  it  nuther.  'Pears  like  them  treaties  was  all 
travellin'  contracts." 

"  How  did  Coacoochee  look? " 

"  Not  much  like  that  time  I  seen  him  in  San  Augus- 
tine.  That  time  he  rode  through  the  place  with  on'y 
five  warriors,  jest  at  sundown,  and  the  garrison  was  so 
stunned  like  that  they  never  moved  till  he  was  out  in 
the  Pines.  I  s'pose  it  was  his  way  to  tell  ole  King 
Philip  to  take  heart  and  be  a  man.  You  must  remem 
ber  it,  sir." 

"  Yes  ;  I  was  one  of  the  stunned  garrison,"  laughed 
the  major. 

"  Well,  you  must  say,  sir,  he  did  it  grand  like." 

"  Yes,  like  a  knight-errant.  Next  to  Osceola  he  was 
the  most  splendid  warrior  I  ever  saw." 

Then  the  major  cross-questioned  Bob  as  to  the  affair 
at  Castalar's,  getting  minute  details  of  what  seemed 
unimportant  facts,  which,  before  this  exhaustive  exam 
ination,  had  been  apparently  of  little  value  to  the 
sagacious  frontiersman,  but  which,  when  reckoned  up 
by  his  old  commander,  gave  new  light  to  this  sinister 
tragedy. 

The  major's  brief  was  not  }*et  made  out  when 
Leszinksky  rode  back  to"  meet  them,  with  a  new  arrival, 
—  Tisson.  He  had  cautiously  followed  the  trail  from 
Castalar  Valley  to  the  Kiamesha,  where  the}'  had  been 
joined  by  detached  bands  ;  and  from  there  until  he  was 
sure  their  flight  was  directed  across  the  headwaters  of 
the  Boggy  to  the  Washita,  and  so  by  the  Comanche 
trail  to  the  fastnesses  of  the  Witchita  Mountains. 
Having  determined  their  course,  Tisson  hastened  by 
the  most  direct  route  to  meet  the  party  he  knew  would 
come  from  Fort  Gibson,  his  hardy  little  pony  having 
made  quite  one  hundred  miles  in  fifteen  hours. 


THE  PURSUIT.  149 


The  command  now  halted,  Colonel  Kearny  sending 
back  to  hasten  the  march  of  the  troops  immediately 
following,  and  leaving  orders  for  the  rear-guard,  with 
the  supply  train,  to  cross  the  North  and  South  Canadian 
just  above  their  junction,  and  then  go  up  the  hills  on 
the  south  branch  to  the  mouth  of  Little  River,  where 
they  were  to  encamp  and  await  orders.  Express  riders 
were  also  sent  to  Forts  Towson  and  Washita  to  direct 
the  movement  of  the  military  and  the  volunteers  whom 
the  hue  and  cry  of  the  massacre  would  already  have 
brought  together. 

In  two  hours  two  more  companies  of  the  1st,  to 
gether  with  a  party  of  about  fifty  Osage  Indians,  who 
had  arrived  at  the  fort  the  da}'  previous  with  game  and 
other  articles  of  barter,  and  who  had  gladly  volunteered 
to  fight  Pawnees,  halted  at  the  temporary  camp.  It 
was  now  daj'light,  and  after  a  hurried  breakfast  the 
troops  were  again  in  motion,  Colonel  Kearn}-  and  the 
last  arrivals  going  almost  directly  southward  until  they 
should  strike  the  trail  of  the  Pawnees  where  Tisson  had 
left  it;  while  Captain  Moore's  company  and  "  BealPs 
Scouts  "  —  as  they  were  already  christened  —  were  to 
strike  across  to  the  Seminole  village  on  the  South 
Canadian,  and  then  join  the  main  bod}*  at  the  head 
waters  of  the  Boggv,  at  a  point  known  as  the  Willow 
Cove. 

The  movement  of  Colonel  Kearny's  command,  until 
their  arrival  at  the  given  rendezvous,  was  somewhat 
dela}-ed  by  the  broken  trail,  which  had  separated  at 
several  points,  —  the  usual  Indian  stratagem  to  delay 
pursuit, — and  then  resumed  again,  to  break  and 
disperse  after  short  halts.  The  colonel  reached  Willow 
Cove  before  sundown  on  the  twenty-sixth,  and  found 
Captain  Moore,  who  had  arrived  an  hour  before,  arrang 
ing  his  camp  with  the  prudence  of  an  officer  who  knows 
he  is  in  the  enemy's  vicinage.  Major  Beall  and  the 
scouts  had  just  started  over  to  the  headwaters  of  the 
Blue  River  to  examine  the  indications  and  see  if  any  of 
the  band  of  Pawnees  had  come  so  far  northward.  This 
Captain  Moore  told  the  colonel,  and  also  of  their  stop 


ISO  BABY  RUE. 


at   the   village  of   Coacoochee,  who,  as  he  said,  had 
received  them  in  a  cool,  haughty  manner. 

"Did  you  offer  any  reward  for  information?"  the 
colonel  asked. 

"  Yes ;  Leszinksky  insisted  I  should,  and  Beall 
also  advised  that  I  should  make  a  personal  appeal  to 
the  chief,  who,  he  said,  was  always  a  generous,  mag 
nanimous  fellow.  He  preferred  I  should  do.  this,  as 
Coacoochee  might  not  listen  to  any  appeal  from  him. 
It  seems  the  widow  of  Waxehadjo  is  living  in  Coacoo- 
chee's  lodge.  She  is  his  sister,  and  is  insane  from  the 
shock  of  her  loss.  The  dragoons  killed  two  of  her 
children  at  the  time  of  Waxehadjo's  capture,  and  the 
two  others  died  on  their  wacy  from  Florida.  Then, 
too,  the  chief  has  married  the  daughter  of  Osceola.  So 
the  family  influence  would  not  have  been  favorable  to 
an  entreaty  from  Beall.  I  thought  Leszinkskj^  would 
not  be  sufficiently  cool  in  manner  when  speaking  of  his 
child's  danger,  so  Beall  kept  him  apart  while  I  talked  to 
the  chief.  He  could  or  would  promise  nothing.  Said 
his  young  men  were  '  off  on  a  hunt.'  and  that  if  the 
Pawnees  were  on  the  war-path  he  knew  nothing  of  it ; 
that  they  were  enemies  of  the  Seminoles.  If  they 
crossed  into  his  country  he  should  repel  them  ;  in  that 
event,  if  he  recaptured  the  child,  he  would  return  her 
without  ransom.  He  neither  warred  against  nor  sold 
children.  This  was  said  with  a  disdainful  look  toward 
Beall,  whom  it  was  evident  he  recognized,  for  he  went 
into  his  lodge,  and,  although  he  gave  us  the  supplies  we 
asked,  he  declined  payment  or  gifts.  If  we  have  a 
brush  with  the  Mexicans  I  should  not  be  surprised  if 
the  Seminoles  all  go  on  a  hunt  the  other  side  of  the 
Witchita  Mountains." 

"Damn  them,  let  them  go!  They  had  better  be 
there  than  near  the  settlements,  itching  to  take  scalps 
enough  to  avenge  old  scores.  The  Government  had 
better  have  finished  the  '  exterminating '  it  commenced 
in  Florida  than  have  forced  their  removal.  It  will  be 
the  same  cry  until  they  are  driven  into  the  Pacific. 
There  is  n't  a  gentleman  in  the  army  who  is  n't  ashamed 


THE  PURSUIT.  151 


of  the  whole  damned  business.  I  'm  willing  enough  to 
fight  them  when  my  blood's  up  with  some  such  outrage 
as  this  last,  but  I  am  tired  of  being  a  frontier  police 
man,  alwaj's  yelling  '  Move  on ! '  to  some  red  rascal. 
Why,  what  the  devil  is  up  now?  Here  come  Beall  and 
Leszinksky,  riding  as  though  '  all  hell  had  broke 
loose.' " 1 

1  Paradise  Lost,  Book  IV.,  Hue  918. 


152  BABY  RUE. 


CHAPTER  XXI. 

IN  worst  extremes,  and  on  the  perilous  edge 
Of  battle. 

MILTON. 

AT  the  head  of  the  little  ravine  the  ascent  was  easy 
to  a  broad,  gravelled  plateau  which  divided  the 
sand-hills,  making  a  wide  and  firm  highway  that  curved 
through  and  then  around  the  base  of  the  ridge,  suddenly 
ending  in  a  grove  of  cottonwood  that  bordered  the  South 
Canadian.  The  entrance  into  the  little  ravine  from  the 
prairie  at  the  head  of  the  Blue  River,  and  the  exit  of  this 
natural  turnpike  into  the  secluded  wood,  made  a  secret 
pass  known  onry  to  a  few  Indian  hunters  and  two  white 
men.  Fortunately  for  Lo-loch-to-hoo-la,  it  was  un 
known  to  the  Pawnees  and  the  Ottoes  who  were  with 
them  on  the  war-path.  They  had  given  up  the  pursuit 
more  willingly  because  they  believed  he  would  be 
hemmed  in  among  the  sand-hills,  where  he  would  fi 
nally  be  forced  to  sacrifice  his  captive  to  the  exigencies 
of  the  situation.  The  distance  from  the  camp  of  the 
Pawnees  to  the  head  of  the  ravine  was  about  six  miles, 
the  road  on"  the  plateau  to  the  cottonwood-grove  possi 
bly  two  more.  Emperor  had  made  it  in  less  than  half 
an  hour. 

Rue  had  wakened  with  the  plunging  leap  that  took 
them  into  the  ravine.  For  the  moment  she  struggled 
with  her  bonds,  but  the  network  around  the  blankets 
held  firmly.  The  regular  motion  of  Emperor's  grand 
stride  again  lulled  her  to  sleep.  Lo-loch-to-hoo-la  was 
left  free  to  watch  his  pursuers  and  his  wound. 

The  jaded  ponies  soon  lagged-  in  the  rear,  and  a  mile 


THE  PURSUIT.  153 


from  the  head  of  the  ravine  the  last  of  the  Pawnees 
turned  back.  The  chief's  wound  bled  profusely ;  but 
during  the  race  he  had  managed  to  wrap  it  closely  with 
a  strip  hastily  cut  from  his  blanket.  Two  hours  more, 
and  darkness  would  overtake  him.  He  must  at  least 
put  the  Canadian  between  himself  and  the  party  he  had 
left.  But  then  this  pass  that  he  had  so  fortunately 
stumbled  upon  might  be  known  to  the  white  men  he 
knew  were  following  them.  He  was  in  danger  of  meet 
ing  enemies  at  every  step.  This  blind  trail  through 
the  cottonwood-grove  led  eastward :  from  this  direction 
the  "  Long-knives  "  would  come.  He  rode  slowly  to  the 
edge  of  the  wood,  keeping  beneath  the  shelter  of  the 
trees.  There  the  buffalo  which  had  escaped  from 
the  chase  were  resting  in  the  grassy  slope  that  swept 
eastward  ;  he  had  passed  stragglers  and  wounded  ani 
mals  constantly  since  leaving  the  ravine.  The  herd  in 
front  out  there  seemed  uneasy,  yet  they  did  not  look  in 
his  direction.  No,  they  too  were  looking  eastward. 
There  !  down  there  in  the  coming  twilight  there  was  a 
line  creeping  onward,  every  instant  growing  more  dis 
tinct.  Yes  !  they  were  soldiers.  The  red  reflection  from 
the  western  sky  glinted  along  the  burnished  guns  and 
sabres.  Doubt  was  not  possible  :  they  knew  the  pass. 
His  people  would  be  taken  in  the  toils,  attacked  on  all 
sides  —  for  the  warrior  instinctively  read  the  tactics  of 
his  enemies  —  without  warning.  Feasting  in  fancied 
security-,  his  people  would  be  an  easy  pre}r.  He  must 
go  back.  The  splendid  stallion  he  rode  had  not  yet 
been  put  to  the  top  of  his  speed.  There  was  time. 
But  then  the  sleeping  chincha.  At  that  very  moment 
the  little  rosy  hand  touched  his  own.  She  stirred  un 
easily  in  her  sleep  ;  a  long,  deep  sigh  told  the  prisoner's 
dream.  He  would  not  take  her  to  those  who  were 
thirsting  for  her  life.  Yet  he  could  not  desert  his  tribe 
when  the  foe  was  about  to  strike.  He  had  no  time  now 
to  take  her  to  the  shelter  he  had  intended  to  seek.  He 
would  hide  her  in  the  wood  down  by  the  river-side,  and 
return  after  he  had  warned  his  people.  If  he  should 
not  return  —  if  he  should  be  killed  !  The  stern  warrior 


154  BABY  RUE. 


shuddered  as  he  thought  of  that,  —  of  the  child  alone, 
starving  in  the  wood. 

Only  half  decided,  he  turned  Emperor,  and  rode 
rapidly  into  the  dense  thicket  b}'  the  river,  the  horse's 
hoofs  sinking  silently  into  the  moss.  Suddenly  he 
came  into  an  opening  where  three  Indians  sat  upon  a 
fallen  log.  The}'  sprang  to  their  feet  and  drew  their 
weapons,  when  one  of  them  recognized  him.  Fear 
lessly  he  advanced,  and  asked  in  the  Comanche  lan 
guage,  "  Are  the  chiefs  with  Senaco  friends  of  the 
Indians,  or  slaves  of  the  Long-knives?"  And  he 
looked  inquiringly  at  the  two  Seminoles,  whose  totem 
he  had  instantly  recognized. 

The  younger  of  the  Seminoles,  whose  eye  and  color 
betrayed  the  anger  the  query  had  excited,  looked  in 
stinctively  to  the  elder  for  permission  to  reply.  The 
wily  Comanche,  anxious  to  prevent  any  difficulty  be 
tween  his  Pawnee  ally  and  his  late  interlocutors, 
said :  — 

"  My  brother  has  heard  of  the  deeds  of  the  great 
chief  of  the  Seminoles.  The  warriors  of  the  pale-faces 
were  gathered  in  Florida  as  ten  to  one,  when  Coacoo- 
chee  fought  them  in  the  Everglades.  Lo-loch-to-hoo-la 
has  seen  the  chiefs  of  his  own  people  bury  the  hatchet 
when  their  wounded  warriors  were  prisoners,  and  their 
women  and  children  were  surrounded  by  angry  enemies 
whose  brothers'  scalps  hung  from  the  lodge-poles  of  the 
Pawnees." 

Lo-loch-to-hoo-la,  since  the  first  brief  glance  of  recog 
nition,  had  never  once  turned  to  the  Comanche  ;  but 
whilst  listening  to  the  speaker  had  looked  fixedly  in  the 
C3'es  of  the  Seminole  chief,  as  if  to  read  not  only  the 
answer  to  his  spoken  question,  but  to  the  thought  in 
his  heart.  He  dismounted,  carelessly  holding  the  bridle 
over  his  arm. 

Face  to  face  were  two  of  the  most  marked  and  dis 
tinct  types  of  the  North  American  Indian,  —  the  war 
like  chief  of  a  powerful  tribesvho  had  once  roamed  at 
will  over  the  trackless "  plains  from  the  Mississippi  to 
the  Rocky  Mountains,  and  the  gentler  and  more  chi- 
valric  warrior  of  the  Florida  savannas. 


THE  PURSUIT.  155 


Lo-loch-to-hoo-la  was  dressed  in  the  full  panoply  of 
a  Pawnee  warrior.  His  head  was  shaved  after  the 
fashion  of  his  tribe,  leaving  only  the  scalp-lock,  orna 
mented  with  a  beautiful  crest  of  deer's  hair.  His  moc 
casins  and  leggings  were  of  tanned  skins,  gartered  with 
broad  bands  of  wampum.  Over  his  shoulders  a  heavy 
silver  clasp  held  together  one  of  the  exquisitely  made 
blankets  of  the  Navajos,  so  highly  prized  by  the  In 
dians  of  the  plains,  to  which  a  sinister  effect  was  given 
by  a  fringe  of  scalps.  Around  his  brawny  throat  was 
a  necklace  of  grizzly  bears'  claws,  whilst  his  wrists 
were  ornamented  with  a  number  of  silver  and  wampum 
bracelets.  The  dress  and  bearing  of  the  chief  agreed 
in  their  savage  grandeur.  Even  the  scar  that  gashed 
the  cheek  and  nose  added  to  his  martial  appearance, 
as  did  also  the  vermilion  tint  that  lit  the  dark  bronze 
visage. 

Coacoochee  was  about  forty  years  of  age,  a  little 
above  the  medium  height.  Eyes  dark,  full,  and  ex 
pressive  gave  a  singular  charm  to  the  sad  but  mourn 
fully  sweet  countenance.  His  perfectly  S3-mmetrical 
figure  was  clad  in  a  simple  hunting-dress  of  tanned 
deer-skins  ;  its  sole  ornaments  a  broad  belt,  embroi 
dered  with  the  pearls  once  so  common  a  possession  of 
the  Florida  Indians,  and  a  curiously  wrought  breast- 
piece  that  hung  from  a  wampum  band  around  his 
throat.  The  only  weapons  carried  by  the  Seminole 
chief  were  a  rifle  and  a  simple  hunting-knife  in  its  sil 
ver  scabbard,  thrust  carelessly  in  the  girdle  about  his 
waist.  Yet  with  all  this  simplicity  there  was  a  natural 
grandeur,  a  magnificence  in  the  presence  of  the  man, 
that  instantly  impressed  the  beholder  with  the  idea  of 
his  kingly  rank.  To  these  natural  advantages  of  per 
son  add  the  magnetic  quality  of  a  voice  clear  and  soft 
as  the  low  notes  of  a  silver  flute.  When  with  fluent 
speech  and  graceful,  rapid  gesture  he  urged  an  argu 
ment,  or  deigned  to  persuade,  the  effect  upon  the  peo 
ple  of  his  race,  always  so  sensitive  to  the  peerless 
charm  of  oratory,  seemed  magical. 

The  Seminole  chief  advanced  a  few  steps ;  and  then, 


156  BABY  RUE. 


folding  his  arms  across  his  breast,  repeated  the  name  he 
had  heard  from  the  Comanche,  emphasizing  it  with  a 
soft  note  of  inquiry,  —  "  Lo-loeh-to-hoo-la  ?  " 

The  barbaric  Pawnee  thrilled  from  head  to  foot  at  the 
mere  sound  of  his  name  ;  then,  instinctive!}'  tutored  to 
the  etiquette  of  royal  presence,  gave  a  mute  gesture  of 
assent. 

Coacoochee  continued:  "Five  summers  ago  the 
daughter  of  Osceola  was  a  prisoner  in  a  village  far  to 
the  northwest.  Coacoochee  had  been  called  to  a  coun 
cil  of  his  people  in  Mexico ;  and  the  cry  of  the  last 
child  of  the  great  chief  who  had  fought  with  him  on  the 
savannas  could  not  be  heard  across  the  Sierras.  The 
medicine-men  of  the  Pawnees  doomed  her  to  die.  They 
were  on  the  war-path  against  the  white  man,  and  the 
heart  of  a  virgin  must  be  offered  to  the  Spirit  of  Battle. 
The  fagots  were  piled  in  the  middle"  of  the  wide  prairie, 
where  all  the  Pawnees  were  assembled.1  The  young 
maiden  of  the  Seminoles  was  bound  to  the  stake,  a 
torch  was  lit  to  fire  the  fagots,  when  a  gallant  war- 
chief  rushed  forward  to  the  pile,  leading  two  horses, 
the  swiftest  in  the  tribe.  He  cut  the  bands  that  con 
fined  the  prisoner,  lifted  her  to  one  of  the  horses, 
mounted  the  other,  and  before  his  surprised  people 
knew  release  was  attempted,  they  had  cleared  the  ring 
and  were  in  the  path  of  safety.  Two  days  he  rode 
with  her  southward.  Osceola  himself  could  not  have 
cared  for  his  daughter  more  tenderly.  Then  he  left 
her  on  the  trail  of  her  people  with  provisions  for  her 
journey.  Unstained  and  pure  she  was  decreed  to  the 
fire  of  sacrifice :  unstained  and  pure  she  was  restored 
to  her  tribe.  She  is  in  the  lodge  of  Coacoochee,  — the 
wife  of  his  bosom,  the  delight  of  his  eyes.  The  pre 
server  of  the  child  of  Osceola,  the  chief  with  the  big 
heart  and  the  strong  arm,  is  the  brother  of  Osceola's 
friend.  The  Seminoles  and  the  Pawnees  are  enemies, 
but  the  life  of  Coacoochee  is  ready  to  answer  any  need 
of  Lo-loch-to-hoo-la." 

1  This  story  of  a  Pawnee  chief  is  told  in  Thatcher's  "  History 
of  the  North  American  Indians." 


THE  PURSUIT.  157 


The  listening  Pawnee  flushed  with  gratified  pride 
until  his  face  glowed  like  flame-lit  bronze.  He  trembled 
at  praise  as  he  had  never  trembled  at  danger.  For  a 
moment  he  was  silent.  Then  a  short,  imperious  cry 
from  the  child,  who  had  wakened  and  was  again  strug 
gling  with  the  resistant  net-work,  recalled  him  to  recol 
lection  of  her,  and  also  of  the  danger  of  his  tribe.  With 
a  harsh,  guttural  tone  that  feeling  had  deepened,  he  said, 
"  Lo-loch-to-hoo-la's  heart  is  glad.  The  words  of  the 
great  chief  are  sweet  to  his  ear  as  the  sound  of  running 
water  in  the  forest.  But  the  path  of  his  people  is  even 
now  beset  with  danger.  From  the  edge  of  the  wood  he 
has  seen  the  soldiers  of  the  pale-faced  chief.  They 
know  the  pass  through  the  hills  to  the  camp  of  the  Paw 
nees,  there,  where  my  people  are  resting,  not  thinking 
that  the  Long-knives  have  so  soon  found  and  followed 
their  trail.  Lo-loch-to-hoo-la  must  go  to  his  warriors  ; 
but  he  has  here  a  little  captive  he  saved  from  the  toma 
hawks  of  his  people.  The}'  have  asked  of  him  her  life. 
But  the  prisoner  of  Lo-loch-to-hoo-la  is  his  own.  The 
deadly  plague  of  the  white  man  has  made  his  lodge 
desolate.  There  is  not  a  child  of  his  blood  alive.  The 
Great  Spirit  has  opened  his  heart  to  the  brave  little 
eaglet  he  found  upon  the  war-path.  See !  she  is  the 
color  of  the  pale-face,  but  her  spirit  is  that  of  the  red 
man." 

Hastily  releasing  the  child  from  her  blankets,  he  held 
her  toward  the  Seminole  chief,  saying,  "  Coacoochee 
cannot  lie  ;  his  tongue  is  not  forked.  My  brother  will 
take  this  little  child  to  the  daughter  of  Osceola.  He 
will  say  to  her,  '  Lo-loch-to-hoo-la  gives  you  the  child 
of  his  heart  while  he  is  upon  the  war-path  with  his  peo 
ple.  If  he  falls  in  the  coming  battle,  his  spirit  will  not 
go  to  the  happ}-  hunting  ground  until  it  passes  the  lodge 
of  Coacoochee.  The  sight  of  Ning-ah-shaw-na-quit-a l 
in  the  arms  of  the  wife  of  the  Seminole  chief  will  make 
him  glad  as  he  crosses  the  dark  water  before  reaching 
the  land  of  the  Great  Spirit.'  " 

He  took  from  his  shoulders  the  magnificent  Navajo 


Ning-ah-shaw-na-qui-ta,  Brave  Little  Heart. 


158  BABY  RUE. 


blanket,  and,  doubling  it  about  the  child,  fastened  it 
with  the  heavy  clasp.  Even  then  he  remembered  that 
it  had  seemed  to  please  her.  Coacoochee  held  out  his 
arms  for  the  child :  she  turned  away  from  him  to  Lo- 
loch-to-hoo-la,  with  the  pretty,  nestling  movement  of  a 
young  bird.  The  Pawnee's  heart  grew  heavy  with  the 
pang  of  parting.  A  moment  he  hesitated,  then  reso 
lutely  gave  her  to  the  Seminole  chief.  Her  lips  quivered  ; 
a  little,  moaning,  tired  sob  seemed  to  come  from  a  break 
ing  heart ;  but  she  caught  the  sound  of  Coacoochee's 
voice  as  he  talked  with  the  three  Indians,  and  its  charm 
held  her.  When  the  sound  ceased  and  she  looked  for 
Lo-loch-to-hoo-la  he  was  gone. 


THE  PURSUIT.  159 


CHAPTER  XXII. 

HE  is  come  to  ope 
The  purple  testament  of  bleeding  war. 

SHAKSPEARE. 

MAJOR  BEALL'S  report  to  Colonel  Kearny  was 
soon  made.  He  had  discovered  the  camp  of  the 
Pawnees,  who  were  so  unconscious  of  the  nearness  of 
their  pursuers  that  they  had  neglected  their  usual  pre 
caution  of  outlying  guards.  They  had  all  collected  at 
the  camp-fires,  the  smoke  from  which  could  easily  be 
seen,  forming  a  hazy  curtain  against  the  red  light  of  the 
setting  sun.  He  had  left  Stearns  and  Black  Beaver 
with  the  Osages  to  watch  and  instantly  report  any 
movement  to  Colonel  Kearny.  There  was  a  pass 
through  a  little  ravine  at  the  head  of  the  Pawnee's 
camp,  known  to  Stearns  and  Pike ;  so  he  had  brought 
Pike  and  the  rest  of  his  little  part}'  to  venture  the  attack 
through  this  pass  in  the  rear  of  the  Pawnees,  should 
Colonel  Kearny  conclude  to  attack  at  once. 

At  the  council  of  officers  nearly  all  were  for  immediate 
attack ;  but  there  was  one  puzzling  objection.  If  the 
Indians  were  surprised,  or  "so  worsted  in  an  encounter 
that  their  escape  seemed  doubtful,  the  fate  of  the  little 
prisoner  would  be  instant  death.  Another  point :  was 
the  force  large  enough  to  surround  the  enemy  success 
fully  ?  A  weak  line  could  be  easil}'  broken,  and  separate 
detachments  overpowered  in  detail.  But  there  was  a 
chance  of  complete  surprise :  then  the  odds  would  be 
certainly  on  the  side  of  the  dragoons.  At  this  moment 
an  express  rider  came  with  news  of  a  strong  detachment 
on  the  way  to  join  them  that  night.  Every  man  in  the 


160  BABY  RUE. 


Red  River  settlement  who  could  bear  arms  was  out  with 
-  the  military  from  Fort  Washita,  to  avenge  the  murder  of" 
their  neighbors ;  more  troops  were  coming  to-morrow 
from  Fort  Towson.  The  question  of  numbers  was  set 
tled.  The  little  prisoner  was  the  vulnerable  spot  in  their 
arrangements.  Leszinksky,  who  until  now  had  quietly 
kept  his  place  with  the  junior  officers,  approached  the 
colonel. 

' '  Well,  Leszinksky,  say  what  you  would  suggest.  I 
shall  be  glad  if  you  can  assist  us  here.  I  tell  you  frankly 
that  this  is  one  of  the  most  trying  questions  I  have  ever 
been  called  to  decide.  From  Beall's  report,  we  can 
catch  these  rascals  at  such  a  disadvantage  that  a  sting 
ing  punishment  can  be  inflicted; — but  then  the  baby? 
A  victory  over  these  skulking  Pawnees  would  never 
repay  her  loss.  Major  Beall's  plan,  to  surround  them 
to-night  and  parle}T  with  them  in  the  morning,  will  pos 
sibly  be  best.  But  then  there  is  a  chance  they  may  slip 
through  our  fingers.  In  that  case  the}r  get  off  scot 
free,  after  all  these  horrible  butcheries  through  the 
country ;  and  we  shall  not  even  regain  the  captive,  for 
whose  release  we  shall  have  sacrificed  almost  the  certainty 
of  their  complete  discomfiture.  I  favor  whipping  them 
first  and  parleying  afterwards  ;  but  if  A'ou  can  suggest 
anything  you  would  like,  it  will  have  great  weight  with 
us  all." 

"I  have  only  one  thing  to  say,  Colonel.  If  the 
chances  seem  to  you  equal,  that  they  will  murder  my 
little  daughter  in  event  of  defeat,  or  escape  with  her  to 
the  Comanche  country  if  we  fail  to  attack  them,  — then 
I  beg  of  }"ou,  sir,  to  order  an  instant  advance.  Only 
give  Major  Beall  an  hour's  start  through  the  pass,  and 
let  me  and  those  of  my  comrades  who  came  here  as 
volunteers,  go  with  him.  I  shall  beg  of  them  to  shoot 
at  any  Indian  who  is  seen  trying  to  escape  with  my 
child,  if  the  bullet  goes  straight  to  her  heart.  I  had 
rather  she  was  safe  in  heaven  than  given  over  to  the 
tender  mercies  of  the  marauders  who  have  committed 
the  outrages  just  reported  to  you." 

There  was  a  steady  light  in  the  clear  eyes,  and  a  ring  in 


THE   PURSUIT.  l6l 


the  voice  of  the  speaker,  that  went  straight  to  the  hearts 
of  the  brave  men  who  surrounded  him.  There  was  no 
longer  hesitation  or  doubt.  Instant  preparation  for  at 
tack  was  ordered.  The  party  to  the  pass  to  go  at  once  ; 
and  to  Major  Beall's  scouts,  and  the  young  officers  who 
had  volunteered,  was  added  Captain  Moore's  company, 
which  could  be  spared  from  the  command,  now  that  the 
reinforcing  party  was  only  ten  miles  distant ;  and  the 
news  of  the  coming  fight  would  bring  them  in  time  to 
count  for  something  in  the  battle. 

An  hour's  start  was  given  to  Beall  to  get  through  the 
bills  to  the  bank  of  the  South  Canadian.  From  there, 
their  route  was  direct  and  uninterrupted  to  the  head  of 
the  ravine.  Pike  led  the  vmy.  Bob  Stearns  or  Black 
Beaver,  in  his  place,  would  have  found  some  indication 
of  the  traveller  who  had  so  lately  come  and  gone  through 
the  cotton  wood,  but  Pike  stolidly  went  on  to  the  pass. 
He  had  no  orders  to  look  for  trails ;  and  without  orders 
the  giant  never  worried  his  slow-working  faculties. 
Beall,  who  rode  just  behind  Pike,  was  talking  to  Moore, 
Leszinksky,  and  Carson  ;  so  neither  of  them  observed 
the  print  of  Emperor's  shoes  in  the  mossy  bank  at  the 
edge  of  the  wood.  To  the  men  who  followed,  a  horse 
shoe  more  or  less  was  nothing,  though  the  track  of  an 
unshod  pony  would  have  caught  their  attention. 

As  the  dragoons  passed  through  the  wood  skirting 
south,  there  to  the  north,  where  the  jutting  bank  of  the 
river  made  a  tiny  ba}',  surrounded  by  bending  trees, 
where  from  bough  to  bough  vines  had  intertwined  and 
crossed  until  a  close  screen  hid  it  securely  from  an\' 
chance  passers,  the  two  Seminoles  and  the  Comanche 
resumed  the  conference  Lo-loch-to-hoo-la  had  inter 
rupted. 

A  canoe  was  fastened  to  the  shore.  In  it  sat  Babj* 
Rue,  securely  muffled  in  the  chiefs  blanket,  gravely 
eating  the  last  of  Lo-loch-to-hoo-la's  luncheon,  whilst 
her  eyes  wandered  from  the  Indians  on  the  bank  to  the 
broad  silver  clasp  that  the  slipping  folds  of  the  blanket 
had  shifted  from  its  place  on  her  breast  to  her  lap. 
Suddenly  the  measured  tramp  of  the  dragoons'  horses, 

11 


1 62  BABY  RUE. 


as  they  struck  the  rocky  highway  that  led  round  the 
base  of  the  hills,  was  heard ;  there  was  the  clank  of 
scabbards  as  the  column  closed.  The  little  child  dropped 
the  bright  ornament  that  had  pleased  her,  and  a  cry  of 
"  Papa !  Papa  !  "  rang  over  the  river.  Her  struggle 
swayed  the  light  canoe,  and  as  it  swung  round  sideways 
to  the  shore,  the  breeze  from  the  south  lifted  the  tangled 
curtain  of  vines,  and  through  the  arches  of  the  slender 
trees  the  troop  could  be  seen  clearly,  out  in  the  open 
by  the  hills.  Again  she  called,  "Papa!  Papa!"  half 
frantic  with  delight  at  the  sight  of  the  familiar  figures  of 
mounted  dragoons.  But  the  breeze  that  had  given  them 
to  view  carried  the  cry  of  the  child  down  the  river,  wHei^ 
it  was  heard  only  by  the  water-fowl  as  they  gathered 
their  young  to  their  nests  in  the  cane. 

The  dragoons  had  closed  up  at  a  fast  trot,  and  were 
soon  over  the  two  miles  to  the  head  of  the  ravine.  As 
they  crossed  the  last  ridge  before  their  descent  from  the 
line  of  the  sand-hills,  Lo-loch-to-hoo-la  reached  the  point 
where  a  sudden  turn  of  the  creek  formed  the  angular 
opening  into  the  hills.  Hidden  by  the  darkness  that 
was  gathering  in  the  hollows,  he  could  see  against  the 
sky-line  the  troop  crossing  the  ridge.  A  moment  more 
and  he  had  turned  the  point  of  the  hills  and  entered  the 
open  prairie.  In  the  lingering  twilight  he  saw  the 
ponies  grazing  by  the  little  stream.  He  rode  up  the 
ridge,  so  lately  the  scene  of  his  passage  at  arms  with 
Non-je-ning-go,  and  plainly  in  view  were  the  camp- 
fires,  where  all  were  assembled  for  the  feast.  He  crossed 
the  hollows,  and,  dismounting,  climbed  the  next  ridge, 
cautiously  crawling  when  near  the  top. 

Yes,  there  were  the  advance  scouts  of  the  pale-faces. 
Not  twenty  yards  below  him  an  Osage  was  lying  on  the 
ground,  watching  the  scene  at  the  fire.  He  had  been 
so  intently  interested  there  that  he  had  not  seen  the 
chief  ride  into  the  hollow.  On  the  rolling  ridge  still 
further  eastward,  there  was  a  little  group  gathered, 
and  towards  them  a  man  was  running  rapidly,  in  a 
stooped  position.  The  chief  could  tell  it  was  a  scout, 


THE  PURSUIT.  163 


possibly  one  who  had  been  nearest  the  unconscious 
revellers.  He  was  safe  from  the  group  over  there  ;  but 
what  to  do  with  the  watcher  so  near  him,  who  could  see 
him  pass  to  the  fires,  and  who  would  at  once  suspect  he 
carried  news  of  the  coming  foe?  That  problem  was 
quickly  solved.  He  waited  until  the  man  across  on  the 
far  ridge  had  reached  his  comrades,  and  then,  knowing 
they  would  be  for  a  moment  absorbed  by  the  story  being 
told,  he  drew  his  bow  and  carefull}'  adjusted  the  arrow. 
There  must  be  no  need  of  another,  —  no  intimation 
given  to  those  far-away  watchers  that  their  comrade  had 
gone  to  another  questioning  than  theirs.  The  left  arm 
of  the  chief  was  stiff  and  painful  from  his  wound,  but 
the  stoicism  of  the  Indian  was  regardless  of  pain. 
Though  the  tingling  and  tortured  nerves  quivered  for 
an  instant,  the  bow  was  clasped  steadily  and  the  arrow 
sent  home, — home  to  the  citadel  of  a  life.  It  entered 
the  brain  of  the  Osage  just  behind  the  ear.  Not  a  cr3", 
not  a  movement,  told  that  death  had  come  in  the  flight 
of  an  arrow.  But  Lo-loch-to-hoo-la  knew.  He  could 
now  go  to  his  tribe  unseen.  The  hunters  were  about 
them :  they  must  be  instantly  ready  or  they  would  be 
taken  in  the  toils. 


164  BABY  RUE. 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 

A  STILL,  small  voice  comes  through  the  wild, 
Like  a  father  consoling  his  fretful  child, 
Which  banishes  bitterness,  wrath,  and  fear, 
Saying,  "  Man  is  distant,  but  God  is  near  !  " 

AN  hour  after  the  departure  of  Moore's  squadron 
the  officers  and  men  of  Colonel  Kearny's  com 
mand  were  in  the  saddle  and  moving  cautiously  toward 
the  Indian  camp.  Twice  they  were  met  by  messengers. 
The  first  reported  the  Indians'  preparation  for  the  feast 
and  their  apparent  unconsciousness  of  danger ;  the 
second  brought  better  news.  Stearns  and  two  of  the 
Osages  had  captured  the  only  guard  between  the  com 
mand  and  the  Indian  camp.  He  was  perched  on  the 
summit  of  a  sand-hill,  eagerly  watching  some  fracas  in 
the  valley,  when  the  crust  gave  way,  and  he  slid  into 
the  midst  of  the  little  party,  who  had  just  decided  that, 
as  they  could  not  capture,  the}1  must  in  some  noiseless 
way  dispatch  him.  The}'  had  him  gagged  and  tied  be 
fore  he  had  recovered  from  the  astonishment  of  his  slide 
into  their  hands. 

When  within  two  miles  of  the  camp,  Colonel  Kearny 
halted,  and  sent  forward  an  Osage  scout,  who  soon 
returned,  with  Bob  Stearns.  His  report  was  :  — 

"  Well,  Colonel,  I  don't  see  how  we  can  holp  cleanin' 
'em  out  this  time.  The}T  are  sarcumvented  and  signed 
over,  and  'bout  as  good  as  delivered  up,  though  I  must 
say  it  ain't  so  much  the  dragoons  as  will  a-done  it  as 
themselves.  Thar's  somethin'  that  ain't  nateral  'bout 
it  somewhar.  I  've  been  a-fightin'  Injins  from  Florida 


THE  PURSUIT.  165 


to  here,  and  it 's  the  fust  time  I  've  saw  'em  play  such 
cards  as  these.  Why,  it 's  a  plumb  leadin'  of  a  jack  up 
to  a  ace,  —  a-stoppin'  thar  to  hunt  buff'aler  without 
mindin'  one  bit  who  's  a-huntin'  them.  It 's  been  a- 
botherin'  me  mightily.  Thar  must  be  somethin'  the 
matter  with  the  chiefs.  Black  Beaver  says  Lo-loch-to- 
hoo-la  's  a  tip-top  warrior ;  but  he 's  got  a  high  and 
might}'  sort  of  a  way  that  wins  Injins  to  hate  him.  It's 
jus'  that ;  and  I  'm  powerful  'fraid  it 's  'bout  the  little 
capt'n  they've  quarrelled.  You  see,  Colonel,  from  all 
the  repo'tes  we  've  got,  they  ain't  took  nary  another 
prisoner,  —  they  jus'  went  in  for  scalps  ;  an'  that  aryuys 
that  they  ain't  a-goin'  back  to  the  villages,  but  down 
thar  with  the  Comanches  in  Mexico,  and  they  don't  want 
to  be  bothered  with  no  prisoners.  You  see  this,  'bout 
who  's  got  the  baby  in  charge,  is  a  puzzler.  It 's  a 
cur'us  thing  for  a  chief  to  do  on  the  war-path  ;  yet  I 
ain't  never  knowed  Tisson  wrong  when  he  was  tellin' 
jus'  what  he  seen  himself.  Now,  if  so  be  and  Lo-loch- 
to-hoo-la  has  took  a  notion  she  sha'  n't  be  killed,  — 
which  is  jus'  the  on'}*  idee  I  can  come  at, — then  it's 
purty  apt  to  raise  a  rumpus  with  the  other  chiefs  ;  and, 
if  they  've  got  the  warriors  thar  way  o'  thiukin'  then  the 
big  chief  '11  have  to  take  a  back  seat  at  the  council. 
That 's  the  on'y  way  I  can  'count  for  thar  lettin'  us  get 
the  bulge  on  them  like  this." 

"  How  many  Indians  do  }Tou  think  are  in  the 
party?" 

"  Nigh  onto  three  hundred,  sir." 

"There  must  be  more  than  three  hundred.  Why, 
they  struck  nearly  every  settler  from  Castalar's  to  the 
Red  River.  The  Chickasaws  will  not  be  troubled  to 
send  in  any  more  notices  to  quit." 

"No,  sir;  and,  whatever  they  pretend,  they  ain't 
a-goin'  to  be  sorry  much.  But  it's  a  new  move  for  the 
Pawnees  to  do  thar  constable  work.  You  are  mighty 
right  'bout  thar  havin'  been  more  Pawnees  than  these 
over  on  the  Kiamesha ;  but  thar 's  some  of  t  'em  gone 
on  with  the  horses  they  stole." 

••  W  hat !  the  horses  are  not  here  with  them?  " 


1 66  BAB Y  RUE. 

"  No,  sir ;  on'y  the  ones  they  're  riclin' ;  and  they  've 
tired  them  out  with  the  hunt  to-day." 

' '  Could  you  get  anything  out  of  that  fellow  }'ou 
caught?" 

"  Nothin'  but  grunts,  sir.  I  didn't  dar'  loose  his 
tongue  till  I  got  him  most  over  here,  and  then  he  was 
sullen  like,  and  would  n't  talk." 

"  I  think  Beall  told  me  it  was  prairie  south  of  their 
camp.  Will  it  be  possible  to  send  a  detachment  to 
head  off  their  escape  in  that  direction  ?  " 

"  Yes,  sir,  if  they  goes  'bout  a  mile  south  of  here  fust. 
Then  they  can  cross  the  little  creek  that  runs  through 
the  prairie  down  thar,  as  it  cuts  through  the  big  hollow 
they  've  camped  in,  and  you  '11  have  them  sarcumnavi- 
gated.  If  they  knows  of  the  pass  up  thar,  —  which  I 
don't  much  think  they  do,  —  they  '11  jus'  run  direckly 
into  Major  Beall's  weepons.  Them  as  don't  like  bein' 
shot  '11  have  a  mighty  good  chance  of  bein'  finished  with 
the  dragoons'  sabres.  Then,  too,  the  wind 's  on  our 
side,  — and  that's  'bout  the  best  a%  we  could  a-had. 
A  Injin's  hearin'  's  good  as  a  dog's  or  a  mule's.  If  the 
wind  's  a-blowin'  thar  way,  you  can't  count  on  gettin' 
mighty  close  up  before  they  know  it." 

"  How  is  the  road  through  the  pass?  Can  the  dra 
goons  ride  rapidl}*  ?  " 

"Yes,  sir;  it's  main  good;  the  creek's  low,  and 
the  sand}-  ridges  is  most  hard-baked  with  this  clar, 
breez}'  weather.  You  mought  ride  all  the  way  through 
to  that  cotton  wood-grove  on  a  gallop.  The  dragoons 
'11  be  out  on  the  prairie  in  a  half  hour  more,  I  'm  thinkin', 
sir." 

' '  Send  me  the  most  reliable  guide  you  have  for  Cap 
tain  Allen's  detachment.  He  must  cross  the  creek 
down  there  at  once.  As  soon  as  they  are  at  the  creek 
I  will  advance.  Go  back  to  your  men,  and  do  not  fail 
to  watch  if  the  Indians  discover  this  movement  of  Allen. 
If  they  give  the  least  sign  of  fright,  let  me  know  at 
once." 

Stearns  saluted,  and  was  gone.  The  command  halted 
some  ten  minutes  longer ;  then  the  order  was  given  to 


THE  PURSUIT.  167 


advance  quickly.  The}'  were  within  two  hundred  yards 
of  the  ridge  beyond  which  the  scouts  were,  when 
Stearns  came  running  to  the  head  of  the  column. 

"  Colonel,  thar  has  been  some  movement  down  thar 
at  the  camp  whilst  I  was  over  yonder  with  you.  I  can't 
jus'  make  out  what  yet ;  but  thar's  a  scout  up  thar  on 
the  ridge  a-watchin',  and  I've  sent  Black  Beaver  to 
him.  Here  's  Black  Beaver  now." 

The  Indian  came  close,  and  then  said  in  a  low  tone, 
"  Osage  scout  no  good.  Pawnee  got  urn  scalp.  May 
be  so  Pawnee  all  gone." 

"  Could  you  see  the  camp?"  asked  the  colonel  hur 
riedly. 

"  Fire  down  thar  all  by  heself." 

"  Then  how  do  you  know  they  are  gone?  If  they  are 
warned  of  the  presence  of  the  enemy,  they  will  not  stay 
near  the  fire.  That  would  be  to  seek  death." 

"Injun  he  don't  know  nothing.  Injun  big  fool; 
white  man  might}'  smart,  —  he  know  heap.  Maybe'  so 
he  take  one  little  walk,  he  see  he  no  see  Pawnee." 

To  cover  the  impertinence  of  his  sarcastic  red  friend, 
Bob  said  hastily,  "  If  they  've  killed  the  scout,  they 
must  a-been  warned.  Some  on  'em  has  chased  the 
bnffaler  up  thar  and  seen  the  dragoons.  If  them 
Injins  has  lit  out  through  the  prairie,  the}'  '11  make  it 
might}'  hot  for  Capt'n  Allen.  Major  Beall  must  be 
purty  close  here  by  now." 

The  colonel  ordered  an  instant  advance.  At  the  top 
of  the  ridge  the  "  Charge  "  was  sounded.  In  a  moment 
it  was  re-echoed  from  the  head  of  the  prairie,  and  down 
from  the  south  by  the  creek.  Beall  and  Allen  were 
ready.  With  cheers  and  yells  of  triumph,  the  dragoons 
fired,  and  then  rode  thunderingly  at  the  dark  spots  on 
the  prairie  that,  unmoved  i>y  the  shot  or  the  tramp  of 
the  squadrons,  still  waited.  A  few  moments,  and  horses 
were  snorting  and  men  swearing,  as  they  stumbled 
over  the  carcasses  of  the  buffalo  left  from  the  day's 
hunt. 

It  was  plain  the  Indians  had  escaped.  Not  a  moving 
object  upon  the  star-lit  plain  gave  hope  of  the  capture 


1 68  BABY  RUE. 


of  a  solitary  straggler.  Pawnees  and  ponies  had  dis 
appeared  like  the  "  phantasms  of  a  dream." 

The  colonel,  Beall,  and  Allen  drew  rein  at  the  camp- 
fire.  Coming  from  opposite  points,  they  gazed  at  each 
other  in  blank  surprise,  until  the  imp  of  farce  that  lies 
hid  beneath  the  robe  of  tragedy  stamped  each  broaden 
ing  visage  with  such  a  strange  commingling  of  amaze 
ment,  anger,  and  mirth  that  the  dumb  silence  was  at 
length  broken  by  peals  of  laughter.  Beall's  hearty, 
loud  bass  and  Allen's  nervously  hysterical  falsetto  were 
doubled  and  redoubled  in  volume,  as  the  colonel  rolled 
out  a  volley  of  oaths,  with  a  running  accompaniment  of 
cackles  and  snorts  that  would  have  made  the  fortune  of 
an  opera  boiiffe  actor. 

How  the  Indians  had  discovered  the  presence  of  their 
pursuers,  and  then  contrived  to  elude  them,  was  a 
mystery  that  puzzled  even  Beall  and  Bob  Stearns. 
The  latter  was  as  completely  miserable  as  possible  for 
so  sanguine  a  temperament.  To  his  grief  and  remorse 
at  the  loss  of  the  child  was  added  the  crestfallen  feeling 
of  a  baffled  official.  Installed  by  Beall  as  chief  of  scouts, 
he  had  made  a  most  promising  beginning  of  the  affair  in 
hand.  He  had  told  of  the  pass  known  only  to  himself 
and  Pike  ;  he  had  the  entire  directing  of  the  guides  ;  and 
he  and  his  lieutenant,  Black  Beaver,  had  been  near 
enough  to  the  camp  of  the  enemy  to  be  sure  that  —  un 
til  the  unfortunate  hour  they  had,  in  the  blindness  of 
confident  success,  trusted  the  watch  to  that  ill-starred 
Osage  —  there  was  not  a  movement  of  the  savages  that 
betrayed  the  slightest  alarm  or  uneasiness.  Anxious  to 
repair  his  blunder  and  save  his  tottering  reputation, 
Stearns  called  Black  Beaver,  who,  confident  in  the  opin 
ion  he  had  given  the  colonel,  had  disdained  any  move 
ment  toward  the  prairie,  and  getting  torches  the}-  went 
to  where  the  dead  Osage  was  lying,  on  the  crest  of  the 
ledge  to  the  east. 

Just  below  in  the  hollow  was  the  little  clump  of  cotton- 
wood  under  which  Lo-loch-to-hoo-la  and  his  captive 
had  spent  the  entire  afternoon  before  the  flight  up  the 
ravine.  Their  search  soon  determined  several  important 


THE   PURSUIT.  169 


facts.  Rue  was  alive  and  in  the  care  of  the  "  Big  Chief," 
who  had  evidently  rested  there  for  some  time  with  the 
child.  After  the  most  careful  and  minute  examination 
of  ever}'  foot  of  ground  under  and  around  the  cotton- 
wood,  they  sought  the  temporary  headquarters  of  the 
officers,  who  were  straggling  in  from  their  useless  gallop 
in  the  darkness  of  a  cloudy  and  moonless  night. 

Carson  and  Leszinksk}'  were  the  last  to  return. 
There  was  a  quick  movement  in  the  group  of  officers, 
to  make  place  for  the  late  comers.  For  the  first  time 
since  the  night  when  the  story  of  his  child's  capture  was 
told  him,  Leszinksk}'  seemed  hopeless  and  despondent. 
The  clear  eyes  had  lost  their  light ;  his  face  had  a  hag 
gard,  anguished  expression  ;  there  were  lines  in  it  that 
told  of  a  quick  transition  from  youth  to  age.  His  step 
dragged,  his  movements  were  uncertain,  all  elasticity 
was  gone.  The  blaze  of  sullen  anger  in  Carson's  face 
was  far  less  painful.  It  was  apparent  that  he  suffered  ; 
but  then,  too,  it  was  apparent  that  there  was  capacity 
to  take  punishment.  One  might  have  been  the  Sorrow 
ful  Knight  whom  affection  brought  to  the  lists  of  Tem- 
plestowe  ;  the  other  was  a  boxer,  sturdily  set  in  the  ring 
to  give  and  take  heavy  blows. 

The  colonel  was  of  right  the  host  at  that  modest 
spread.  He  made  place  instantly,  and  called,  "Come 
here  by  me,  Leszinksky.  You  must  try  our  rude  fare, 
and  then  get  what  sleep  3*011  can  before  our  early  start. 
We  will  be  off  as  soon  as  it  is  light  enough  to  get  the 
bearings  and  the  trail.  The}'  will  not  slip  through  our 
fingers  again.  Crowd  in,  there,  Carson  ;  you  must  be 
hungry  after  the  long  ride." 

Leszinksky  took  his  cup  of  black  coffee  and  drank  it, 
without  apparent  knowledge  of  what  he  did.  He  had 
fallen  into  absent  thought,  —  his  wife,  his  child,  the 
little  broken  home,  —  when  a  hand  touched  him  on  the 
shoulder. 

"Marse  Stan,  thar's  good  news,  sir.  Black  Beaver 
and  Marse  Bob  Stearns  is  out  heah  a-waitin'  fur  you 
nil  to  get  yo'  supper;  but  I  would  come  to  let  you 
know,  sir,  they  's  foun'  little  Miss  Rue's  tracks,  sir,  up 


1 70  BABY  RUE. 


heah  in  the  holler,  an'  they 's  sho  she  's  alive  an'  well, 
sir." 

For  an  instant  the  }roung  officer  trembled  all  over. 
He  was  ghastly  pale.  Moore,  who  sat  beside  him  on  the 
ground,  took  out  his  ever-ready  flask,  and  insisted  on  his 
taking  it  instantly.  There  was  a  general  uprising,  and 
the  colonel's  voice  rang  out  sharpby. 

"Stearns,  come  here  at  once!  "What  have  3*011 
found?" 

The  soldier's  voice,  as  he  answered,  had  in  it  vibrat 
ing,  joyful  tones  of  triumph  that  carried  conviction  and 
hope  with  every  word. 

"•  I  went  up  thar  on  the  ridge,  sir,  with  Black  Bea 
ver  to  whar  the  Osage  was  killed  to  see,  if  so  be  and  I 
could,  how  the}'  come  to  find  him.  Thar  was  a  arrer 
shot  clean  through  his  head,  and  fastened  in  his  hand 
whar  his  face  was  a-leanin'  on  it.  It 's  a  oncommon 
long,  heavy  arrer,  and  Black  Beaver  says  it 's  the  Big 
Chief  shot  it.  That,  sir,  made  me  more  careful  like  not 
to  spile  any  tracks  or  Injin  signs  that  raought  be  round 
thar.  We  commenced  at  the  dead  Osage,  and  struck  out 
the  way  the  arrer  come,  holdin'  onr  torches  close  to  the 
ground.  Furder  up  the  ridge,  close  to  the  sand-hills 
whar  the  hollow  ends,  we  found  whar  the  Injin  that 
shot  the  Osage  had  crep'.  He  must  of  alread}*  knowed 
we  was  most  onto  'em,  for  he  had  crawled  up  outen  the 
slant  at  the  top  o'  the  hollow  mighty  cautious.  He 
rested  thar  a  spell,  watchin'  us.  It  was  easj-  to  see 
whar  his  elbows  dug  in  the  sand  thar.  Then  he  seen 
the  Osage,  who  was  a-lookin'  down  at  the  camp-fires. 
The  Big  Chief — for  I  know  it  was  him  —  crawled  down 
over  a  gulley  till  he  got  behind  some  bushes  of  prickly 
pars  :  here  he  tried  his  arrers.  He  threw  away  this  one, 
sir ;  you  see  the  head  's  loose."  (And  the  arrow  was 
passed  round  the  circle.)  "  Then  he  found  one  to  please 
him,  and  he  shot.  It  couldn't  a-been  blind  dark,  so  I 
know  it  must  a-been  'bout  the  time  Black  Beaver  come 
back  from  lower  down  the  ridge,  jus'  before  I  met  you, 
sir.  So  3-011  see  they  had  purty  nigh  a  hour's  start  on 
us.  Arter  he  shot  the  Osage,  the  Big  'Chief  crep' 


THE  PURSUIT.  I/I 


down  the  hollow  agin  till  he  got  jus'  below  the  ridge 
whar  the  Osage  was  a-lyin',  and  then  he  went  up  for  his 
scalp.  Trackin'  him,  we  come  to  a  little  clump  of  scrubby 
cottonwood,  up  thar  by  a  damp  place,  —  a  sort  o'  blind 
spring,  —  and  thar  the  track  was  plain.  On  the  edge 
of  the  cottonwood,  a  horse  had  been  tied,  — a  shod 
horse,  with  small,  thoroughbred  feet,  but  it  wah  n't  no 
Injin  pony.  We  went  back  to  see  whar  the  horse-tracks 
come  from ;  and  we  follered  them  in  the  sand  over  the 
ridge  and  the  prairie,  goin'  toward  the  pass,  and  thar 
we  lost  the  trail  in  the  marks  of  dragoons'  horses.  So 
we  come  back  agin  to  the  cottonwood,  and  commenced 
to  look  under  the  bushes,  whar  I  found  them  little  tracks 
in  the  edge  of  the  damp  place." 

Here  he  turned  to  Black  Beaver,  who  held  carefully 
on  his  folded  blanket,  for  the  officers  to  examine, 
about  a  foot  square  of  damp,  sand}-  earth,  in  which  was 
the  distinct  mould  of  one  little  stockinged  foot  and  one 
wee  moccasin.  As  Leszinksky  stooped  and  kissed  the 
print  of  his  child's  foot  in  the  sand,  mist  came  to  eyes 
unused  to  tears.  Around  back  of  the  officers,  men 
were  grouped,  looking  and  listening.  He  spoke  to 
them  :  — 

"  If  there  is  a  soldier  here  who  will  walk  back  to  Fort 
Gibson,  and  carry  carefully  and  unbroken  this  token  of 
my  child  to  her  mother,  I  will  give  him  a  hundred  dol 
lars.  It  is  a  small  sum  for  such  a  service,  but  you 
know  that  I  am  not  rich  enough  to  make  it  larger." 

"  And  I  will  give  another,"  said  Carson  eagerly. 

"  And  I,"  "And  I,"  the  chorus  was  swelling  when 
the  colonel  called,  — 

"  And  if  any  of  you  undertakes  the  job,  and  fails  to 
deliver  it  in  the  perfect  condition  it's  in  now,  I  will  give 
him  nine-and-thirty  lashes,  and  the  guard-house  for  a 
week." 

A  beardless,  handsome  boy  came  from  the  ranks. 
"  I  will  go  without  an}-  reward,  and  take  your  punish 
ment,  Colonel,  if  I  fail.  It  is  little  to  do  for  an  officer 
who  saved  me  in  a  hand-to-hand  fight  with  two  Indians, 
in  that  scrimmage  we  had  on  the  Arkansas,  when  my 


BAB Y  RUE. 


horse  was  shot  and  my  arm  broken.  I  ain't  forgot, 
Lieutenant,  how  you  lifted  me  up  right  from  under  the 
tomahawk  and  brought  me  out.  And  I  never  can  for 
get  that  Mrs.  Leszinksky  took  me  herself  in  the  ambu 
lance  out  to  Bouie's  Hill,  when  I  had  the  fever,  and  the 
doctor  said  I'd  die  in  the  hospital,  and  had  me  tended 
as  kindly  as  she  could  one  of  her  own.  I  '11  be  only  too 
glad  to  go.  You'll  let  me,  won't  you,  Colonel? " 

"  Yes,  and  give  you  all  I  promised  if  you  fail," 
growled  the  colonel,  as  he  blew  his  nose  like  a  trumpet 
and  turned  to  Bob  Stearns.  "  Well,  what  else?  I  see 
you  have  not  told  all  your  story  yet." 

"No,  Colonel,  not  all.  I  found  this  little  piece  of 
the  baby's  dress  on  a  prickly-par'  bush  that  was  close 
by  whar  the  chief  had  put  her  on  his  blanket." 

"  How  do  you  know  he  did  that?"  asked  Leszinksky. 

"  Why,  sir,  to  a  Injin  trailer  it  was  plain  as  writin'. 
Thar  was  the  mark  o'  the  blanket,  and  the  baby  on  it, 
on  the  little  patch  of  runnin'  vines  that  grew  in  that 
sandy,  light  kind  o'  ground  ;  and  I  found  a  piece  o' 
bread  and  a  beef-bone  thar ;  and  over  nigh  by  the  blan 
ket  the  chief  had  been  settin',  leanin'  agin  a  little  rise 
in  the  ground  ;  he  was  turned  toward  the  camp-fire, 
watch  in',  I  reckon.  His  horse  was  a-grazin'  in  the 
young  bushes  and  the  few  tufts  o'  buffaler-grass  that 's 
that.  So  you  see,  for  some  reason,  he  wah  n't  sociable 
like  with  the  chiefs  and  warriors.  Thar  wah  n't  another 
track  close  up  thar,  though  thar  was  some  a-goin'  up 
and  down  the  hollow  not  fur  off." 

"  Then  you  think  the  child  is  not  only  alive  and  well, 
but  well  cared  for  ?  " 

"  I  'no  sho'  of  it,  Leftenant.  For  some  reason,  sir,  — 
that's  what  I  can't  make  out,  —  the  Big  Chief's  took  to 
her  for  good.  Thar  was  some  bright  leaves  and  holly- 
berries  and  little  pebbles  all  shook  together,  whar  the 
blanket  was  picked  up,  that  he  must  a-givc  her  to  pla}T 
with.  So  you  see  it 's  for  kindness  to  her,  and  not  for 
spite,  he 's  saved  her  life.  I  'm  sho'  of  it,  and  so 's 
Black  Beaver.  Ask  him." 

The  general  attention  was  turned  to  the  Indian. 


THE  PURSUIT.  173 


"  Pappoose  all  good  safe.  May  be  so  Lo-loch-to- 
hoo-la  take  um  home  to  em  wife.  Ma}'  be  so  that  woman 
he  no  got  any.  May  be  so  he  lose  um,  —  he  cry  all  ee 
time.  See  heap  womans  that  a  way.  Maybe  so  Lo- 
loch-to-hoo-la  got  nodcler  one  wife  —  that  one  wife  he 
got  plenty  pappoose.  He  make  that  noclder  one  woman 
got  no  pappoose  heap  mad.  He  tell  Lo-loch-to-hoo-la 
ketch  um  one.  Now  chief  ketch  um  one  no  'fraid  Injun 
—  no  'fraid  nowhere.  Chief  heap  glad  —  much  like  this 
a  one.  Won't  let  Pawnee  kill  um,  won't  let  nodder  one 
hurt  um." 

All  the  officers  now  walked  up  to  the  cotton  wood 
clump,  Stearns,  Black  Beaver,  and  Oscar  in  front  with 
torches,  and  many  of  the  men  bringing  up  the  rear  with 
a  fresh  supply  ready  to  light ;  Beall  and  Lesziuksky 
next  to  the  torch-bearers.  The  second  examination 
confirmed  belief  in  the  scout's  theoiy  of  the  protection 
and  care  given  the  child.  The  mark  of  the  spread  blan 
ket,  the  food,  the  gathered  playthings,  the  remoteness 
from  the  crowd  at  the"  fire,  told  of  a  care  that  was  kindly 
and  watchful.  Emperor's  tracks  were  recognized  by  a 
man  in  Captain  Moore's  company  who  had  shod  him. 
Everj'bod}'  began  to  be  hopeful  of  the  child's  rescue. 

At  a  council  of  the  officers  that  night,  Leszinkskj- 
made  a  request  that  was  strongly  supported  by  Major 
Beall,  —  that  the  command  should  camp  where  they 
now  were,  and  await  the  reinforcements  and  supply 
train,  which  could  be  ordered  on  at  once,  while  Les- 
zinksky  and  a  small  party  should  push  on  rapidly  to  the 
Washita  with  a  flag  of  truce,  and,  if  possible,  see  the 
chief  who  had  his  child  and  arrange,  for  her  ransom. 

After  some  discussion  the  colonel  consented,  only 
insisting  the  escort  should  be  strong  enough  to  inspire 
the  Indians  with  respect. 


1/4  BABY  RUE. 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 

YEA,  truth  faileth  ;  and  he  that  departeth  from  evil  maketh 
himself  a  prey.  —  ISAIAH. 

WITH  the  first  gray  glimmer  of  dawn  Captain 
Moore's  company,  Lieutenant  Carson  with 
twenty  picked  men  from  Allen's,  and  "  Beall's  Scouts," 
started  for  the  crossing  of  the  Washita.  In  advance  of 
the  squadron  a  white  flag  was  carried ;  and  the  tele 
graphic  smoke,  rising  from  the  highest  points  ahead, 
told  plainly  their  movements  were  being  observed  and 
signalled. 

About  noon,  a  large  party  of  horsemen  showed  them 
selves  several  miles  distant.  From  the  glistening  of 
the  lances,  which  blazed  as  the}'  turned  them  in  the  sun, 
the  first  conclusion  of  the  officer  was  that  they  were 
Mexican  cavahy,  who  had  been  apprised  of  the  approach 
of  the  Americans,  and  had  advanced  to  contest  it.  An 
examination  with  field-glasses  at  nearer  quarters  proved 
them  to  be  a  war-part}'  of  Comanches.  Suddenly  they 
disappeared  over  the  hill,  and  soon  reappeared  on  an 
other  summit  farther  off  and  slightly  different  in  direc 
tion.  The  squadron  again  advanced  toward  them  with 
like  result.  The  command  was  halted. 

Major  Beall  and  Leszinksky,  with  Carson  as  flag- 
bearer,  rode  forward  and  signalled  the  Indians  to 
approach ;  when  one  of  the  warriors,  carrying  a  white 
buffalo-skin  on  the  point  of  his  lance,  came  dashing 
across  the  prairie  until  he  met  Carson,  who  was  slightly 
in  advance  with  the  flag.  The  Comanche  rode  a  small 
but  powerful  silver-gray  horse ;  the  prominent  eyes, 


THE  PURSUIT.  175 


sharp  nose,  high  nostrils,  small  feet,  and  delicate  legs 
proving  him  a  wild  horse  of  the  plains,  sprung  from 
the  mixed  Arab  and  Andalusian  stock  introduced  by  the 
Spaniards  at  the  time  of  the  invasion  of  Mexico.  The 
rider  looked  Carson  steadily  in  the  face,  then,  leaning 
his  lance  against  the  flag,  whirled  his  horse  in  a  wonder 
fully  executed  series  of  demi-vaults,  reining  and  spur 
ring  the  spirited  steed  as  he  came  prancing  and  leaping 
along,  tacking  to  right  and  left  like  a  ship  beating  against 
the  breeze,  to  where  Beall  and  Leszinksky  waited.  He 
held  out  his  hand,  which  Beall  instantly  grasped.  See 
ing  his  friendly  reception,  the  rest  of  the  party  advanced 
under  "full  whip."  After  a  general  hand-shake,  all 
dismounted,  and  the  pipe  was  lit  and  passed  around. 

Major  Beall  and  a  Comanche  who  could  speak  Span 
ish  being  the  interpreters,  the  object  of  the  expedition 
was  fully  explained,  —  "to  ransom  the  little  daughter 
of  an  officer  there  present."  Then  the  major,  in  a  florid 
address,  sketched  skilfully  what  would  be  the  material 
gratitude  of  the  officer  and  his  comrades  to  any  brave 
chief  of  the  Comanches  who  would  see  the  captor  of  the 
child,  known  to  be  now  in  their  county,  and  arrange 
the  terms  of  ransom. 

For  a  short  time  after  the  interpreter  had  finished  the 
translation,  the  Comanches  were  silent.  Then  the  war 
rior,  who  had  first  advanced  to  meet  the  flag,  addressed 
the  Indians  in  a  few  short,  emphasized  sentences,  to 
which  they  gave  read}'  assent.  He  now  turned  to  Beall, 
and,  to  the  surprise  of  that  officer,  addressed  him  in 
excellent  Spanish.  He  said  :  — 

"  We  have  listened  to  the  words  of  the  chief  of  the 
Long-knives.  They  are  good  words :  the  hearts  of 
the  Comanches  are  touched  with  the  pain  of  the  chief 
who  has  lost  from  his  lodge  the  child  whose  pres 
ence  made  pleasant  the  faces  of  his  friends.  They 
will  do  what  they  can  to  make  his  heart  glad, — to 
turn  this  trouble  away  from  his  people.  But  the  Co 
manches  have  not  been  upon  the  war-path ;  they  did 
not  cross  the  Washita  until  their  young  men  told  of  the 
coming  of  a  great  war-party  of  the  pale-faces.  Over 


1 76  BABY  RUE. 


there "  —  and  he  pointed  in  the  direction  of  Colonel 
Kearny's  encampment  —  "  the  Great  Chief  is  gathering 
his  warriors.  If  he  only  seeks  a  little  child  who  has  been 
stolen  by  the  Pawnees,  why  are  the  Long-knives  from 
the  forts  on  the  Arkansas  and  the  Red  River  all  turning 
into  the  trail  that  leads  to  the  Comanche  villages  ?  " 

It  needed  all  the  major's  aplomb  to  answer  this  natu 
rally  and  without  the  hesitation  that  would  have  been 
seen  instantly  by  the  wily  Comanche.  Long  experience 
and  a  little  native  impudence  served  him  at  need.  He 
explained  that  straggling  parties  of  Pawnees  had  been 
reported  as  scattered  from  the  Washita  to  the  Kiame- 
sha,  raiding  through  the  country  of  the  Chickasaws, 
the  allies  of  the  Great  Father,  murdering  the  white 
settlers  who  were  not  immediately  under  the  protection 
of  the  guns  of  the  fort,  and  driving  off  all  their  cattle. 
For  this  the  garrisons  had  all  been  at  once  alert  and  out 
in  pursuit.  Here  came  the  best  touch  of  the  major's 
diplomacy,  reserved  as  the  concluding  and  convincing 
phrase :  ' '  The  Great  Chief  had  hastened  on  to  the 
headwaters  of  the  Blue  River  to  intercept  the  Pawnees 
at  the  pass,  and  after  the  failure  to  capture  them  there, 
sent  out  runners  to  arrest  the  advance  of  all  other  par 
ties  to  the  Comanche  country,  until  the  bearers  of  the 
flag  of  truce  should  make  the  request  which  the  Great 
Chief  was  there  to  enforce,  if  need  be.  That  although 
he  desired  above  all  things  to  preserve  a  friendly  rela 
tionship  with  the  Comanches,  he  would  be  compelled  to 
cross  the  Washita  and  search  the  entire  countiy,  if  the 
little  prisoner  was  not  at  once  forthcoming." 

This  speech  told  on  his  audience :  first  the  promise  of 
reward  and  ransom,  then  the  threat  to  come  to  the  vil 
lages.  They  were  not  read}'  for  such  visitors.  Later, 
when  their  Mexican  allies,  who  were  now  some  distance 
south  of  the  Red  River  watching  Taylor's  forces,  should 
not  be  far  off;  when  the  league  with  all  the  disaffected 
border-tribes  should  be  perfected ;  when  Senaco,  that 
shrewd  diplomatist,  should  have  won  the  great  war- 
chief  of  the  Seminoles  to  new  effort  against  the  foe  he 
had  fought  so  long,  —  then  the  soldiers  of  the  pale-faces 


THE  PURSUIT.  177 


might  come.  For  then  their  villages  would  be  deserted ; 
their  women  and  children  safe  the  other  side  of  the 
AVitchita  Mountains,  beyond  the  salt  plains,  in  the  fer 
tile  valleys  of  the  Pecos,  where  winter  brings  no  hard 
ship  or  suffering.  For  the  present,  they  must  temporize  ; 
must}ield  to  the  necessities  of  the  time,  and  make  what 
the}-  could  out  of  the  advantages  offered.  The  major's 
interlocutor,  His-oo-san-ches,  began  :  — 

"  The  chief  has  spoken  like  a  brave  man.  He  is  not 
afraid  of  the  truth.  The  Comanches  will  talk  with 
Lo-loch-to-hoo-la.  To-morrow,  when  the  sun  rises, 
His-oo:san-ches  will  be  here  with  the  answer  of  the  Big 
Chief  of  the  Pawnees.  The  Great  Chief  and  the  war 
riors  must  come  no  farther.  The  Pawnees  have  eyes  — 
they  would  see  the  war  party  far  off.  They  would  then 
go  to  the  north  of  the  Comanche  country,  and  the  little 
prisoner  would  be  lost  to  her  people." 

The  arrangement  was  soon  perfected.  Captain  Moore 
encamped  on  a  little  hill  with  a  creek  hard  by,  where 
they  could  have  the  advantage  of  water,  grazing,  and 
wood  ;  yet  sufficiently  elevated  to  watch  the  plain  across 
which  the  Indians  must  come.  Dispatches  were  sent  to 
Colonel  Kearny,  begging  him  not  to  advance  until 
after  the  coming  conference. 

At  the  rising  of  the  sun,  His-oo-san-ches  and  his 
party  were  seen  coming  across  the  prairie.  There  was 
the  greatest  possible  excitement  in  the  command  when 
Black  Beaver,  looking  at  the  Indians,  who  were  now 
close  at  hand,  exclaimed,  in  a  startled  manner  unusual 
to  his  race,  "  See  Lo-loch-to-hoo-la !  " 

"  Where?  where?  "  asked  a  dozen  voices. 

"There  —  that  a  one  —  heap  big.  Got  Mexican 
blanket  —  Mexican  sombrero.  No  show  Pawnee  shaved 
head  —  no  ride  'Merican  horse.  Think  white  man  heap 
fool  —  no  got  somebody  here  tell  um.  " 

Carson  and  Stearns,  with  the  same  impulse,  hastily 
examined  and  re-capped  their  pistols.  There  was  a 
general  movement  as  if  to  have  weapons  in  readiness,  — 
a  touch  of  sabre-hilts,  an  uncovering  of  holsters.  Even 
Beall  and  Moore  gave  quick  glances  at  each  other  as 

12 


1/8  BABY  RUE. 


they  shook  themselves  in  their  saddles,  with  the  cavalry 
instinct  that  sounds  the  perfectness  of  trappings. 
There  was  an  instantaneous  resolve  in  every  mind  that, 
come  what  would,  the  child-stealer  should  be  their  pris 
oner,  —  at  least  until  his  captive  was  given  up.  Captain 
Moore  only  uttered  the  thought  in  every  mind  when  the 
order  was  quietly  spoken,  "  Look  out  there,  all  of  you  : 
we  may  have  a  fight  here  any  moment.  Buford,  take 
ten  picked  men  and  watch  every  movement  of  that 
damned  Pawnee.  He  is  not  to  go  back,  no  matter  how 
this  conference  ends.  We  '11  have  a  prisoner  to  add  to 
tlie  ransom  offered  for  the  child.  If  the  Comanches 
resist,  seize  the  chiefs ;  we  will  hold  them  as  hostages 
until  she  is  given  up.  " 

Leszinksky,  who  had  ridden  a  little  to  one  side,  and 
then  down  the  hill  toward  the  Comanches,  had  not  ob 
served  the  preparation  or  heard  the  order.  A  soldier, 
he  detested  diplomacy;  a  gentleman,  he  abhorred  deceit 
and  chicanery.  He  was  distrustful  of  the  shifts  of 
Beall's  strategy,  and  tired  of  circumlocution.  He  had 
thus  far  held  his  peace  in  the  conference  where  his 
dearest  interests  were  being  discussed.  Not  only  his 
child,  but  his  wife's  life  hung  in  the  balance.  Longer 
delay,  the  agony  of  suspense  and  apprehension,  added 
to  the  already  delicate  state  of  Margaret's  health,  would 
almost  of  a  certaint}'  result  fatall}".  He  thought  of  the 
doctor's  look  of  warning  that  evening  before  the  news 
came  of  his  child's  capture,  and  then  of  the  mothers 
wild  cries  of  anguish  —  the  last  sounds  he  had  heard 
from  the  voice  that  made  the  heart-music  of  his  home. 
He  was  still  the  lover  of  his  wife.  The  beauty,  the 
delicacy,  the  womanliness  of  her  character,  so  gilded 
her  daily  life  that  the  halo  of  romance  was  preserved. 
She  was  as  sovereignly  the  queen  of  his  thoughts  and 
fancies  as  Margaret  Cartaret  had  been.  To  this  ador 
ing,  respectful  worship  was  the  added  quality  of  ten- 
derest  affection,  of  a  perfectly  reciprocal  confidence  and 
trust.  This  lover  had  not  merely  plucked  a  sweet 
flower,  to  toss  it  carelessly  aside  when  faded :  he  had 
transplanted  an  immortal  blossom  into  the  garden  of 


THE  PURSUIT.  179 


his  life.  Even-  unfolding  leaf  had  been  the  revelation 
of  a  new  beauty.  There  were  no  littlenesses  in  the 
character  of  the  woman  he  loved,  no  conceits  of  pride, 
no  petty  jealousies.  She  assumed  her  place  in  his  life 
and  his  home,  as  part  of  himself.  His  friends  were  her 
friends  ;  his  comrades  were  always  sure  of  her  welcome, — 
a  welcome  so  cordial,  }Tet  so  simple  in  manner,  that  it 
left  them  free  from  any  artificiality  of  compliment.  Her 
rare  and  perfect  tact  accomplished  something  more  diffi 
cult  :  it  left  her  husband  free  with  his  friends.  She 
did  what  is  so  hard  to  the  ordinary  woman,  — she  kept 
out  of  the  wa}' ;  yet  her  presence  was  always  desired, 
because  it  was  never  obtruded.  The  house  had  the 
insouciant  charm  of  bachelor's  quarters,  with  the  added 
attraction  of  the  near  presence  of  a  graceful,  accom 
plished  woman.  What  wonder  that  men,  smarting  from 
the  petty  tyrannies  of  the  sex  that  rules  through  weak 
ness  and  complaint,  canonized  her ! 

Thinking  of  this  peerless  wife,  grieving  with  her  grief 
even  more  than  his  own,  Leszinkslty  determined  to  try 
the  heart  of  the  savage  who  had  spared  his  child.  There 
must  be  love  in  it,  for  she  had  entered  at  that  portal. 
There  must  be  a  brave,  unreckoning  generosity,  for  it 
was  evident  his  protecting  care  had  cost  him  the  su 
premacy  so  dear  to  a  chief.  How  thankful  he  felt  that 
the  imperious  habit  of  stud}T,  the  enthusiasm  of  the 
student  of  philology,  had  led  him  to  examine  closely  the 
different  Indian  dialects,  and  that  the  providence  mor 
tals  call  chance  had  given  him  a  competent  teacher  of 
the  Pawnee  language  the  winter  they  were  in  Laramie, 
the  winter  his  child  was  born,  when,  evening  after 
evening,  a  cheery,  helpful,  companionable  French  priest 
taught  him  the  harsh  gutturals  that  Margaret's  voice 
softened  to  melody,  and  that  must  now  be  used  to  win 
the  freedom  of  her  child. 

These  thoughts  had  made  him  totally  unobservant  of 
Moore's  arrangement  to  capture  the  chief.  He  only 
watched  for  the  first  glance  of  the  man  who  held  in  his 
hands  the  liberty  of  Baby  Ruchcil.  the  life  of  Margaret. 
The  Comanches  halted  as  he  reached  the  party. 


180  BABY  RUE. 


From  the  officers  on  the  hill  came  a  warning  ' '  Gardez 
TOUS  !  "  in  Beall's  voice.  His-oo-san-ches  commenced 
the  customary  hand-shaking.  Leszinksky  made  the 
custom  serve  his  need.  He  shook  hands  down  the  line 
until  he  reached  the  Pawnee,  and  then,  turning  his  horse 
without  care  of  who  followed,  rode  beside  the  chief,  who 
from  the  first  regarded  him  with  watchful  curiosity. 
There  were  quick  glances  of  surprise  from  Coraanche 
to  Comanche  as  Leszinksky  addressed  the  chief  in  the 
Pawnee  tongue,  which  not  a  Comanche  present  under 
stood. 

"  From  the  kindness  Lo-loch-to-hoo-la  has  shown  my 
daughter,  I  know  he  has  the  heart  of  a  father.  He  will 
let  his  heart  speak.  I  will  only  ask  him  one  question, — 
a  question  I  would  answer  instantly  were  I  the  guardian 
of  the  chiefs  child,  as  he  is  of  mine.  Is  she  well?" 

For  an  instant  the  Pawnee  started  as  Leszinksky  re 
peated  his  name,  then  he  only  grew  more  impassive. 
The  white  man  should  not  think  it  was  through  fear  he 
had  sought  disguise.  At  the  last  words  there  was  a 
quick  look  at  the  speaker.  The  fier}r  black  eyes  sought 
to  penetrate  the  very  depths  of  the  clear  gray  orbs  that 
met  his  gaze  so  fearlessly.  They  were  the  eyes  of  the 
little  chincha  ;  the  lights  were  not  so  bright  and  change 
ful  in  expression,  but  more  steady  and  constant.  "  If 
I  were  the  guardian  of  the  chief's  child,  as  he  is  of 
mine " :  the  words  pierced  the  defences  of  pride,  or, 
rather,  they  wakened  a  grander  pride,  —  the  pride  that 
finds  reward  in  the  confidence  it  compels,  the  trust  it 
brings.  He  must  answer.  All  the  more  because  it  was 
a  difficult  thing  to  do,  he  must  answer  truly.  Again  the 
thought  of  the  little  chincha  who  died  on  his  breast 
came,  this  time  to  claim  his  sympathy  for  the  father 
who  suffered,  as  it  had  claimed  his  sympathy  for  the 
child  in  the  extremity  of  peril.  He  would  answer.  But 
here  the  mind  of  the  savage  passed  through  a  new 
change,  —  a  phase  that  lifted  him  from  the  last  plane  of 
barbai'ism.  He  hesitated  to  answer,  because  the  answer 
must  give  pain.  He  was  no  longer  a  savage,  but  a  gentle 
man  who  had  studied  wt  the  humanities  "  in  the  school  of 


THE  PURSUIT.  l8l 


Nature.  The  teaching  of  the  great  Mother  had  begun 
when  the  uplifted  tomahawk  had  fallen  harmlessly  before 
the  fearless  glance  of  a  little  child.  The  next  lesson 
was  an  indefinable  sense  of  the  beauty  of  helplessness, 
caught  glimmeringly  from  the  sheen  of  golden  curls  and 
the  rosy  tips  of  baby  fingers.  His  first  degree  had  been 
taken  when  the  life  of  his  captive  was  laid  in  the  balance, 
and  it  outweighed  the  traditions  of  race,  the  supremacy 
of  chieftainship.  The  teaching  was  finished  in  this 
crowning  lesson,  the  sum  and  end  of  human  ethics,  — the 
pain  in  giving  pain,  the  sorrow  that  is  sorrowful  through 
the  sorrow  of  another. 

"  Ning-ah-shaw-na-quit-a  is  in  the  lodge  of  the  friend 
of  Lo-loch-to-hoo-la.  The  Indian  women  watch  that 
the  fever  spirit,  who  touched  her  by  the  river,  does  not 
enter.  After  the  going  down  and  rising  of  another  sun 
the  child  will  be  safe." 

For  a  moment  both  were  silent.  They  had  reined 
up  at  a  little  distance  from  the  group  of  officers  and 
chiefs,  who  were  soon  smoking  the  pipe  of  peace  around 
a  council-fire  at  the  foot  of  the  little  eminence.  The 
band  of  Indian  braves  was  some  fifty  yards  distant,  in 
the  direction  whence  they  had  come,  sitting  and  lying  at 
ease,  holding  the  lariats  of  their  own  and  the  chiefs' 
horses.  Some  of  the  soldiers  were  dismounted  and  in 
small  parties  on  the  side  of  the  hillock,  behind  and  not 
far  from  the  council-fire  ;  others,  mounted,  were  drawn 
up  in  a  line  on  the  summit.  A  small  party  was  riding 
slowly  down  the  slope  away  from  the  fire,  but  in  the 
direction  of  the  chief  and  Leszinksky.  The  chief  was 
watching  the  approaching  horsemen,  when  Leszinksky 
spoke : — 

"  My  little  daughter  is  suffering  from  the  separation 
from  her  family,  from  the  hardship  of  the  long  jour 
ney  and  the  change  from  the  life  to  which  she  is  accus 
tomed.  I  know  the  heart  of  Lo-loch-to-hoo-la  has 
warmed  to  her.  I  know  the  Indian  women  are  kind  ; 
but  her  mother  is  grieving  as  for  the  dead.  She  is  the 
only  child  the  Great  Spirit  has  given  us.  The  chief  has 
learned  to  love  her  in  the  few  days  she  has  been  in  his 


1 82  BABY  RUE. 


care :  he  can  tell  what  silence  there  is  in  the  home 
where  she  dwelt,  what  sorrow  in  the  hearts  that  had 
only  her.  He  has  heard  from  His-oo-san-ches  what 
ransom  is  offered.  If  there  is  aught  else  I  can  give,  it 
will  be  given  freely  to  the  warrior  who  saved  in}-  child. 
For  the  love  he  has  given  her,  for  the  kindly  care  he  has 
taken,  no  reward  would  be  too  great." 

Leszinksky  had  blundered.  His  anxiety  for  the  suf 
fering  child  made  him  think  only  of  her  illness  and  the 
discomforts  to  which  she  was  subjected.  He  had  not 
trusted  his  first  judgment  of  the  brave,  generous  heart 
of  the  savage.  He  had  gone  back  to  the  dicta  of  the 
frontier,  to  the  logic  of  the  Indian  trader.  He  had  struck 
the  right  key  with  the  first  question  ;  but  he  lost  the  true 
sound  that  answered  him,  and  the  harmony  was  broken. 
The  mistake  was  fatal.  Had  he  stopped  with  the  pic 
ture  of  the  empty  home  and  the  sorrowing  mother,  there 
would  have  been  hope.  Even  then  the  savage  would 
have  found  it  hard  to  break  the  oath  he  had  sworn  to 
himself,  —  the  oath  to  keep  the  child,  come  what  might. 
Now,  when  her  father  made  her  recover}'  a  question  of 
payment,  he  could  refuse.  The  pale-faces  were  all 
traders,  and  in  their  bartering  the  red  man  always  lost. 
Step  by  step  they  had  come  upon  him ;  acre  by  acre 
they  had  taken  his  land.  Treaties  were  written  as  they 
willed,  with  specious  clauses  by  which  the_y  held  the 
Indians  bound  so  the  Great  Father  might  divide  their 
hunting-grounds  at  his  pleasure.  They  had  been  de 
coyed  with  invitations  to  councils,  and  then  held  as 
prisoners.  Coacoochee  was  truthful  and  brave.  Only 
at  the  setting  of  yesterday's  sun,  in  the  new  lodge  the 
Seminole  had  built  beyond  the  Washita,  they  talked  of 
the  history  of  the  red  race  ;  of  the  treachery  of  the  white 
man ;  of  the  death  of  Osceola  in  the  prison  where  the 
brave  spirit  could  only  break  its  bonds  by  bursting  from 
the  clinging  hold  of  the  body  that  bore  the  blood}'  im 
press  of  fetters.  Tecumseh  was  right.  The  onh'  hope 
of  the  Indian,  who  was  vanishing  before  the  white  man 
like  snow  before  the  sun,  was  a  confederation  of  all  the 
tribes.  He  himself  had  talked  with  the  brother  of  the 


THE  PURSUIT.  183 


great  warrior,  the  prophet  of  the  Shawanos,  when  he 
was  journeying  from  nation  to  nation  among  the  Indians 
of  the  Northwest  trying  to  unite  them  against  the  com 
mon  destroyer.  He  remembered  how  his  heart  burned 
at  the  story  of  the  wrongs  endured  by  the  Shawanos, 
who  had  been  driven  foot  by  foot  from  the  great  ocean 
where  the  sun  rises  to  the  base  of  the  Rocky  Mountains. 
Tecumseh  was  dead ;  but  Ooacoochee  was  left  to  unite 
the  tribes,  —  to  lead  them  to  battle,  if  the  Seminole 
would  only  rouse  himself  from  the  burden  of  his 
griefs. 

True,  the  Comanches  were  crawling  snakes  that  the 
warriors  of  the  Pawnees  had  despised ;  but  then  they 
could  sting  the  enemy.  Here  he  thought  of  his  distrust 
of  His-oo-san-ches,  and,  looking  toward  the  council-fire, 
he  saw  the  Comanche  in  close  talk  with  the  white  men  ; 
whilst  there  —  why  were  those  horsemen  there  ?  Why 
had  they  stopped  near  by?  Coacoochee  was  right  in 
this  also.  It  was  a  rash  and  foolish  thing  in  him  to 
come  with  the  Comanches.  They  had  always  hated  the 
Pawnees ;  and  he  himself  even  now  carried  Comanche 
scalps  at  his  girdle.  He  had  come  through  love  for  the 
child.  He  would  keep  her ;  but  he  had  thought  to  learn 
the  heart  of  her  father  by  watching  him  unseen  whilst 
His-oo-san-ches  spoke  of  his  child.  His  own  heart  had 
opened  to  the  chief  with  the  truthful  tongue  and  the 
honest  eyes.  He  had  felt  the  pain  he  must  give,  and 
almost  —  no,  he  would  not  have  broken  his  oath.  Now, 
his  way  was  plain.  He  could  speak,  not  through  the 
lying  Comanche,  but  man  to  man  with  the  chief  who 
had  thought  to  buy  this  new  delight  that  had  come  to 
his  life. 

These  were  some  of  the  thoughts  of  the  chief,  as  he 
sat  silently  in  his  saddle  for  several  minutes  after  Les- 
zinksky  had  spoken.  Then,  suddenly  reining  his  horse 
around  to  confront  his  listener,  he  said  :  — 

"  Lo-loch-to-hoo-la  has  not  come  to  take  ransom  for 
the  little  chincha  who  has  nestled  in  his  breast,  but  to 
hear  the  words  His-oo-san-ches  was  to  say  to  the  chief 
of  the  Long-knives.  The  Comanche  is  a  crawling  snake  ; 


1 84  BABY  RUE. 


his  tongue  is  forked.  Lo-loch-to-hoo-la  feared  he  would 
take  the  gifts  of  the  chiefs,  and  not  say  that  Lo-loch-to- 
hoo-la  would  not  sell  the  child  who  has  made  his  heart 
glad.  She  is  brave  and  fearless ;  she  has  eaten  the 
bread  of  the  Indian,  and  slept  by  his  fire.  All  the 
treasure  of  the  Great  Father  of  the  white  men  cannot 
buy  Ning-ah-shaw-na-qui-ta."  l 

Too  late !  Leszinksky  €elt  he  had  lost  his  oppor- 
tunit}'.  He  must  content  himself  with  hope  for  some 
new  occasion  to  persuade  the  warrior  before  this  con 
ference  ended.  He  would  try  to  win  the  chiefs  trust, 
his  friendship.  He  would  urge  nothing.  He  would  be 
honest  and  frank,  and  trust  the  better  feeling  of  the  man 
he  had  not  understood.  He  had  always  believed  an 
Indian  could  be  truthful  and  just ;  now  he  began  to  see 
he  could  have  the  finer  instincts  of  a  gentleman.  Dis 
mounting,  he  held  out  his  hand:  the  chief  also  dis 
mounted. 

"  Will  not  Lo-loch-to-hoo-la  be  the  friend  of  Leszink 
sky?" 

The  Pawnee  grasped  the  extended  hand.  The  two 
men  regarded  each  other  intently.  The  chief,  still 
holding  Leszinksky's  hand,  said  in  a  low  tone  :  — 

"Lo-loch-to-hoo-la  believes  that  Leszinksky,"  —  he 
made  an  effort  to  get  the  name.  —  "  the  father  of  Ning- 
ah-shaw-na-qui-ta,  is  a  brave  warrior ;  that  his  tongue 
speaks  the  words  in  his  heart.  But  his  people  are  creep 
ing  panthers  ;  and  their  flag  of  peace  is  a  lie.  Even 
now  their  horsemen  are  coming  to  close  the  path  of  the 
Pawnee.  The  Comanches  have  sold  Lo-loch-to-hoo-la 
at  the  council-fire  while  he  was  here  talking  to  his 
friend." 

The  accent  of  these  deep-toned  sentences  was  a 
master-piece  of  wild  oratory.  It  taught  and  convinced. 
The  young  officer  knew,  before  he  turned  to  look,  that 
the  charge  was  true,  that  an  act  of  treachery  was  about 
to  be  attempted.  For  the  first  time  in  all  Stanislaus 
Leszinksky's  life  the  spirit  of  the  imperious  voyvode 
possessed  him. 

1  Brave  little  heart. 


THE  PURSUIT.  185 


"  Stand  back,  men!  Halt  there!  Buford,  why  are 
you  coming  here  ?  " 

The  answer  was  given  rapidly,  that  the  Indian  might 
not  catch  the  meaning  :  — 

"  It  was  the  captain's  order.  "We're  to  arrest  the 
chief  at  all  hazards." 

They  still  approached,  riding  slowly  and  cautiously, 
not  to  scare  their  prey. 

"Halt,  I  say!" 

The  clear  voice  rang  out  imperiously.  Buford  hesi 
tated.  The  men  obeyed  the  senior  officer,  and  halted. 

"  Buford,  this  is  a  mistake  ;  you  have  misunderstood. 
What !  arrest  a  brave  enemy  who  has  come  under  the 
invitation  of  that  flag  of  truce  ?  "  and  he  pointed  to  the 
fluttering  folds  that  waved  at  the  summit  of  the  hill. 

"I  am  not  to  blame,  Lieutenant.  It  was  the  cap 
tain's  order,  given  as  you  rode  forward  to  meet  the 
chief." 

Carson  came  galloping  down  the  hill.  Leszinksky 
turned  quickly  to  Lo-loch-to-hoo-la,  who  stood  apparently 
unaffected  by  the  excitement  about  him,  though  cer 
tainly  conscious  of  his  danger. 

"  Will  Lo-loch-to-hoo-la  trust  his  friend?" 

A  quick  grasp  of  the  extended  hand  and  a  confi 
dent  flash  in  the  dark  e}-es  was  all  the  answer. 

"Then  mount  my  horse.  It  is  the  fleetest  on  the 
plains.  Leszinksky  wishes  to  exchange  with  Lo-loch- 
to-hoo-la." 

The  chief  vaulted  into  the  saddle,  and  waited  as  care 
lessly-  as  if  they  were  alone  there  on  the  prairie.  As 
Leszinksky  mounted  the  pony,  Carson  called  out :  — 

"  Look  out,  Stan  !  Buford  is  going  to  capture  the 
damned  red-skin.  We  will  have  the  chiefs  as  soon  as 
he  is  surrounded.  Why  the  hell  did  you  let  him  mount 
Sultan?  We  will  have  to  kill  him  now  to  take  him,  and 
we  wanted  all  the  prisoners  we  could  get." 

Again  the  men  advanced,  at  a  motion  from  Buford. 
Leszinksk}'  looked  to  the  hill.  There  was  no  mistaking 
the  waiting  attitude  of  the  officers.  There  was  the  flash 
of  a  sabre  in  the  sunlight,  and  again  the  imperious 
call:  — 


186  BABY  RUE. 


"Halt!  63-  the  God  that  made  me,  j'ou  shall  not 
stain  me  with  this  dishonor.  The  chief  who  spared  the 
life  of  my  child  is  here  as  an  envoj'.  That  tiag  is  his 
protection  and  my  justification  in  killing  the  first  man 
who  advances." 

A  voice  at  his  side  said :  ' '  Lo-loch-to-hoo-la  has  seen 
the  heart  of  Leszinksky ;  he  will  not  forget ! " 

There  was  the  rush  of  a  flying  steed  ;  then  the  click 
of  muskets.  Leszinksky  threw  himself  between  Buford's 
squad  and  the  fugitive.  There  were  shots  from  the  hill, 
and  a  struggle  about  the  Comanche  chiefs  ;  but  out  there 
on  the  rolling  prairie  Lo-loch-ta-hoo-la  rode  unharmed 
away  from  his  pursuers. 


PART  VI. 

THE  CONFLICT. 


THE  necessity  of  war,  which  among  human  actions  is  the  most 
lawless,  hath  some  kind  of  affinity  with  the  necessity  of  law. 

SIR  W.  RALEIGH. 


PART  VI. 

THE    CONFLICT. 


CHAPTER  XXV. 

"WE  looked  for  peace,  but  no  good  came  :  and  for  a  time  of  health, 
and  behold,  trouble  !  —  JEREMIAH. 

THAT  evening  Colonel  Kearny,  with  three  com 
panies  of  the  1st  Dragoons,  reinforced  by  a 
detachment  of  the  2d,  two  companies  of  infantry  from 
the  forts  on  the  Red  River,  and  a  mounted  company  of 
volunteers,  arrived  at  Captain  Moore's  encampment. 
Whatever  may  have  been  thought  by  the  senior  officers 
of  the  justice  or  right  of  the  arrest  of  the  chiefs  who 
had  trusted  to  the* sacred  character  of  the  flag  of  truce, 
the  expedience  of  their  arrest  was  not  questioned.  The 
only  regret  expressed  was  that  Lo-loch-to-hoo-la  had 
escaped  ;  and  but  for  the  fact  that  Leszinksky  was  the 
person  most  interested  in  his  capture,  that  young  officer 
would  have  been  severely  reprimanded  for  his  inter 
ference  with  the  execution  of  an  order. 

The  few  Indians  who  had  been  captured  with  the 
chiefs  (the  larger  body,  having  been  some  distance  from 
the  council,  had  escaped)  were  released  at  nightfall, 
their  arms  and  horses  returned,  and  messages  sent  to 
the  Comanches  and  Kiowas  to  the  effect  that  the  in 
vasion  of  their  country  was  only  made  to  capture  the 
band  of  Pawnees.  That  in  case  they  were  given  up, 
and  their  prisoner  returned  uninjured,  the  Comanche 
chiefs  would  be  released  immediately,  and  valuable  gifts 
added  to  the  ransom  originally  offered  for  the  child. 
If,  however,  the  Pawnees,  who  were  known  to  be  in 


BABY  RUE. 


their  camp,  were  suffered  to  escape  and  cany  with  them 
the  little  prisoner,  then  the  chiefs  would  be  held  in  close 
confinement  at  the  fort  until  their  punishment  should  be 
decided  by  the  Great  Father  at  Washington.  More 
over,  their  villages  should  be  destroyed  and  their 
.country  laid  waste,  if  they  did  not  at  once,  and  without 
subterfuge  or  delay,  assist  in  bringing  to  justice  the 
perpetrators  of  the  murders  on  the  Kiamesha. 

That  night,  at  the  council  of  officers,  it  was  decided 
to  leave  the  supply  train  at  this  point,  as  it  was  admir 
ably  adapted  for  a  temporary  station.  The  position  of 
the  little  knoll,  which  commanded  an  extended  view  of 
the  prairie,  and  which  could  be  easily  defended  with 
hastily  constructed  earthworks ;  the  creek,  with  its 
patches  of  cottonwood ;  the  buffalo-grass  in  the  prairie, 
—  all  contributed  to  the  security  and  convenience  of  the 
hastily  improvised  fort. 

In  pursuance  of  this  plan,  all  the  wagons,  except 
those  absolutely  needed  to  accompany  the  command, 
were  parked  at  the  foot  of  the  hill,  near  the  creek,  and 
the  little  howitzer,  which  it  was  decided  to  leave,  was 
put  in  position  on  the  eminence.  All  being  arranged,  a 
detachment  of  fifty  men  (thirty  dismounted  dragoons, 
whose  horses  had  given  out,  and  twenty  from  one  of 
the  infantry  companies)  besides  the  teamsters,  who 
were  frontiersmen,  and  could  be  relied  on  as  a  fighting 
force  in  an  emergency,  were  left  under  the  command  of 
Leszinksky. 

It  was  the  only  mark  of  disapprobation  given  to  his 
resistance  to  orders,  but  one  he  felt  more  as  a  personal 
misfortune  than  a  reproof.  He,  not  having  heard  the 
strong  terms  in  which  Captain  Moore  had  denounced  his 
blank  blanked  Quixotism,  nor  the  equally  pious  manner 
in  which  the  bold  dragoon  begged  he  might  not  be 
permitted  to  come  to  another  council  where  he  would 
have  occasion  or  opportunity  to  repeat  such  blank 
blanked  foil}',  could  not  altogether  understand  why  the 
empty  honor  of  this  command  was  given  him,  whilst 
his  comrades  passed  on  in  the  pursuit,  the  success  or 
failure  of  which  was  to  re-create  or  wreck  his  happiness. 


THE   CONFLICT.  191 


The  reader  has  not  seen  my  hero  as  I  have  desired  to 
paint  him,  if  he  does  not  already  understand  that  the 
governing  characteristic  of  Stanislaus  Leszinksky  was  a 
single-thoughted  sense  of  duty,  which  ruled  every  act 
of  his  life,  and  to  which  the  strongest  affections  of  his 
life  were  subjected. 

To  such  a  character  any  conflict  of  duties  is  painful. 
To  the  conscientious  3'oung  officer  even  the  appearance 
of  insubordination  was  a  thing  to  be  regretted,  but 
not  avoided,  if  obedience  was  made  to  mean  violation 
of  the  rights  of  another.  Acquitted  to  his  conscience 
of  any  wrong-doing  in  his  resistance  to  wrong,  the  sol 
dier  now  yielded  prompt  and  uncomplaining  obedience 
to  an  order  that  gave  exquisite  pain  to  the  heart  of  the 
father.  There  was  a  longing  look  in  his  eyes,  as  he 
watched  the  line  of  horsemen  wind  around  the  hazy 
slopes  and  vanish  in  the  distance,  that  gave  "  trouble 
in  his  mind  "  to  the  usually  unobservant  Pike,  who  had 
been  left  with  the  reserve  through  the  accident  of  a 
lame  horse.  It  was  seldom  the  taciturn  giant  broke  his 
Trappist-like  silence,  but  now,  moved  by  the  spirit,  he 
said  :  — 

"It  ar' a  pitt}^,  Lootinent,  we  couldn't  a-gone.  I 
don't  know  nothin'  much  but  Injuns  and  thar  pints,  and 
a  man  orter  foller  the  bizness  he  knows.  It 's  purty 
apt  to  be  one  thing  or  t'  other  with  the  Teg'ment  this  lick. 
I  Ye  trouble  in  my  mind." 

"  You  think  they  will  have  a  fight  with  the  Co- 
manches  ?  " 

"  I  ain't  nary  doubt  o'  that.  What's  a-troublin'  me 
is  who  's  a  gwine  to  do  the  runnin'.  It  won't  be  the 
Comnnches,  I  'm  a  thinkin' :  and  if  it 's  the  reg'ment 
thar  won't  half  on  'em  git  back  this  side  the  Washitaw. 
Thar  best  holt 's  fitin'.  It  don't  do  to  turn  tail  to  a 
Injun  or  a  grizzly.  You  're  sho*  to  git  clawed  if  }-ou  do." 

"  We  must  do  what  we  can  here,  Pike,  to  make  this 
camp  secure  and  strong,  and  then  watch  the  river 
vigilantlv.  It  is  the  only  way  we  can  assist  our  friends. 
Do  j'ou  think  the  teamsters  can  be  relied  on  if  all  our 
force  is  needed  ?  " 


192  BABY  RUE. 


"Yes.  most  on 'em:  they  ar'  a  sprightly  lot,  and 
won't  dodge  fl'tin',  though  they  '11  be  main  hard  to  rein 
and  might3r  apt  to  kick  in  the  traces  if  they  ar'  let  to 
feel  thar  oats.  If  yon  '11  'low  me  to  say,  sir,  the  best 
thing  is  to  set  'em  at  work ;  and  thar 's  some  a-doin' 
hyar  that  mought  be  better.  I  've  trouble  in  my  mind." 

The  giant  shook  his  head  in  a  doubting  manner,  and 
then,  as  if  to  stir  the  reluctant  brain  to  action,  took  off 
the  wide-brimmed  hat  worn  by  the  scouts,  and  rubbed 
his  forehead  until  it  glowed  in  crimson  streaks  beneath 
the  tangle  of  his  curling  yellow  hair. 

"  What's  the  trouble  about  the  work,  Pike?" 

"  Why,  3'ou  see,  Lootinent,  that  ar*  young  infantry 
officer  who  's  a  buildin'  them  arthworks  up  thar  "  —  and 
he  pointed  to  the  summit,  where  the  soldiers  were  at 
work  —  "ain't  got  no  idee  o'  Injuns  and  thar  durned 
deceivin'  ways.  ,He  '11  do  better  when  he  gits  the  West 
Pint  kinks  out  from  under  his  scalp-lock,  —  that  is,  if 
he  's  got  any  scalp  left  at  that  time,  — but  now  he  do  n't 
know  hide  or  taller  o'  Injuns.  Not  as  he 's  to  blame : 
sometimes  it 's  a  gift,  but  most  wa37s  it 's  larnt  from  the 
fool's  schule  the  Bible  tells  on.  Now,  Lootinent,  I  jus' 
put  it  to  you,  who  has  seen  some  Injuns  and  larnt  some 
schulin'  on  the  plains  :  Whar  ar'  3'ou  gwine  to  put  the 
bosses,  and  how  3rou  gwine  to  git  water  if  the  Co- 
manches  think  o'  cuttin  in  hyar  and  grabbin'  up  all  the 
pervishuns  and  ammunishun?  That  prairie  is  good 
grazin',  and  that  creek 's  got  water  anuff  to  run  a  mill, 
but  it  don't  run  up  into  them  arthworks." 

Leszinksk3r  had  listened,  first  with  half  amusement  and 
then  surprise  at  the  newly-blown  orator,  whose  zeal  had 
so  warmed  him  that  the  perspiration  was  rolling  in  streams 
down  his  face,  and  dripping  from  his  tawny  beard. 

"  Wh3',  Pike,  3Tou  seem  to  think  there  are  Comanches 
enough  around  us  to  eat  up  the  colonel's  force  and 
swallow  us  for  a  dessert." 

"When  Black  Beaver  and  Starns  and  me  was  a- 
dodgin'  through  hya,r  last  3'ear,  sir,  we  laid  b3"  close  to 
thar  villages  thar  in  the  Whitchiter  Mountains,  when 
they  was  bavin'  thar  games  and  hoss-races.  Thar  was 


THE   CONFLICT.  1 93 

more  'an  four  thousand  warriors,  of  Comanches  and 
Kiowas,  and  sence  they've  made  peace  with  the  Pawnee- 
Picts  and  Wacos  —  and  they  all  ar'  the  splendidest 
Injuns  on  the  plains.  I  saw  a  Kiowa,  nigh  onto  seven 
feet  high,  run  down  a  buffaler  and  kill  it  with  his  knife. 
And  them  Comanches  is  the  finest  riders  in  the  world 
—  they  might  a-been  bawn  on  hossback,  so  to  speak. 
Why,  they  hang  like,  by  thar  toe-nails,  right  under  thar 
hosses'  bellies,  and  shoot  thar  arrers  like  a  Kaintuck 
hunter,  takin'  his  ease  a  standin',  would  his  rifle.  And 
all  them  Seminolies,  and  niggers,  and  runegade  Creeks 
ain't  out  a-huntin'  fur  nothin'.  T'  other  day,  at  the 
Seminolie  town,  I  tole  Starns  they  was  a  gittin'  read}'  to 
move.  I  could  feel  it,  sir,  when  I  saw  Coacoochee  look 
round  quick  like,  all  the  time  the  cap'n  was  a-talkin'  to 
him.  I  would  n't  be  tuck  back  a  bit,  sir,  in  my  'pin- 
yun,  if  thar  was  more  'an  three  thousand  Injuns  of  all 
them  nations  over  thar  in  the  timber  t'other  side  the 
Washitaw." 

' '  Why  did  }rou  not  tell  Major  Beall  what  j'ou  thought 
of  the  Seminole  chief?  " 

"Cos,  sir,  I  allus  lets  Starns  do  the  talkin'.  He 
likes  it  and  I  don't.  I  would  n't  a-said  so  much  now, 
sir,  but  fur  the  trouble  in  my  mind ;  and  I  saw  you 
wah  n't  peart  like,  yourself." 

' '  Stearns  said  nothing  of  any  preparation  at  Coacoo- 
chee's  village,  neither  did  Black  Beaver.  I  wish  you 
had  spoken,  then,  to  me  or  the  major." 

"  I  could  n't  a-done  it,  and  Starns  thar.  I'm  used  to 
have  him  do  the  talkin'.  He  and  Black  Beaver  nuther 
saw  nothin'  themselves.  The}*  could  on'y  a-tole  you  I 
felt  it.  You  see,  sir,  they  've  larnt  thar  schulin'  and  I 
ain't.  I  was  allus  so  slow  like,  I  never  could  a-got  this 
Injun  bizness  into  my  head,  if  it  had  n't  been  thar.  It 's 
a  gift  from  the  Lord.  He  gives  it  to  all  the  dumb  things, 
and  the  creeturs  o'  the  woods  and  the  plains.  It's  bawn 
in  'em.  The  wolf-cub  hides  from  the  hunter,  and  the 
fawn  can  tell  whar  he  comes.  I  allus  knowed  the- 
woods  and  its  folks.  The  trees  and  the  vines  and  the 
grass,  even  the  little  posies,  hidin'  under  the  leaves, 

13 


194  BABY  RUE, 

tells  me  who 's  been  about.  I  could  n't  a-larnt  it.  It 's 
a  gift."  And  he  looked  reverently  up  to  the  sky,  then 
far  out  over  the  prairie,  and  fell  into  his  usual  silent, 
waiting  manner. 

It  was  the  first  time  Leszinksk}-  had  ever  heard  him 
talk  except  in  monosyllables,  so  the  effect  was  greater  : 
it  was  as  if  one  of  the  dumb  animals  to  whom  he  likened 
himself  had  spoken.  It  did  the  j'oung  officer  good,  in 
that  it  roused  him  out  of  himself.  He  left  the  musing 
giant  and  sprang  up  the  little  hillock.  The  soldiers, 
who  were  digging  in  the  earth,  looked  up  with  merry, 
twinkling  eyes,  as  they  saw  his  astonished  glance  turn 
from  angle  to  angle  of  the  miniature  bastions,  and  finally 
rest  upon  the  ros}'  face  of  the  handsome  stripling  who 
was  superintending  the  work,  and  who  now  stepped  up  to 
his  senior  with  such  evident  consciousness  of  meritorious 
desert  in  his  expectant  face  that  Leszinksky  had  much 
ado  to  keep  back  the  smile  -that  would  have  gone  direct 
to  the  heart  of  the  boy  who  was  bashfully  waiting  for 
praise. 

"  I  see,  Hancock,  }-ou  have  not  forgotten  the  teaching 
of  Mahan  ;  but  if  we  fight  at  all  here,  we  have  to  fight 
an  enemy  whose  tactics  have  taught  us  that  with  them 
the  simplest  defence  is  the  best.  A\re  may  be  ordered 
away  from  here  at  any  moment,  and  this  elaborate  work 
would  be  lost.  It  will  be  better  if  you  merely  order  the 
men  to  throw  up  a  breastwork.  You  will  not  need  to 
stay  to  superintend  :  leave  your  sergeant  to  do  that,  and 
come  with  me,  please,  to  the  wagons,  where  Buford  is 
waiting.  I  wish  to  consult  with  3~ou." 

The  last  sentence  saved  the  wounded  feelings  it  was 
meant  to  spare,  and  the  boy,  hastily  giving  the  order, 
followed  his  new  commander  to  the  wagons. 

Pike  was  called,  and  in  a  very  few  moments  the  really 
bright  j'oung  subaltern  was  learning  a  lesson  that  as 
sisted  in  forming  the  base  of  a  reputation  which  in  after 
days  rung  through  the  world  when  gallant  deeds  were 
being  chronicled. 

Before  night  their  defences  were  complete.  From  the 
slope  of  the  hill  to  the  creek,  a  distance  of  about  fifteen 


THE   CONFLICT.  1 95 

yards,  the  wagons  were  parked  in  two  lines,  inclosing 
sufficient  space  to  corral  the  horses  at  night ;  and  at  the 
outer  edge  of  this  space  the  wheels  of  the  wagons  were 
bedded  in  slight  earthworks.  Below  the  wagon-beds, 
and  protected  by  those  little  mounds,  the  riflemen  could 
be  at  ease.  Here  were  the  quarters  of  the  detachment 
of  dragoons,  and  the  teamsters,  who  were  organized  into 
a  corps  of  sharp-shooters,  with  officers  elected  from 
their  ranks.  By  acclamation  the  dismounted  scout  was 
chosen  captain,  which  honor  the  giant  accepted  without 
a  speech  of  thanks  ;  but  the  gravel}'  earnest  manner  in 
which  he  went  about  his  duty  proved  he  thought  this 
was  not  likely  to  be  child's  play. 

Whilst  this  was  going  on  in  the  camp  the}*  had  left, 
Colonel  Kearny's  command  had  crossed  the  Washita 
just  above  the  mouth  of  Wild  Horse  Creek,  going  due 
west  to  the  Witchita  group.  From  the  Washita  River 
to  the  Witchita  Mountains  the  country  is  an  inimitably 
beautiful  rolling  prairie,  broken  into  occasional  knolls 
and  billowy  ridges,  with  here  and  there  clusters  of  tim 
ber  and  shrubs  that  give  a  lovely  effect  to  the  land 
scape,  which  ends  in  a  magnificent  background  of  conical 
peaks,  rising  abruptly  from  the  level  surface,  on  which 
huge  blocks  of  granite  exhibit  brilliant  and  varied  shades 
of  crimson,  yellow,  purple,  and  green.  From  the  foot 
of  almost  every  cone  issues  a  limpid  stream,  pure  and 
cool  as  a  fair}r  well.  The  woods  are  vocal  with  the 
songs  of  the  thrush  and  mocking-bird  ;  even  in  winter, 
which  is  full  of  warm,  bright,  sunshinj*  da,ys,  the  air  is 
laden  with  the  odour  of  wild  sweet-violets,  whilst  athwart 
the  deep  blue  of  the  sky  drift  light,  fleecy  clouds  that 
etherealize  and  soften  the  tints  they  catch  and  reflect 
from  the  glittering  masses  of  colored  granite. 

This  special  twenty-ninth  of  December  was  one  of  the 
brightest  of  the  beautiful  days  of  that  enchanting  cli 
mate.  The  troops  were  in  high  feather  from  the  easy 
capture  of  the  five  chiefs, 'who  rode  sullenly  in  the  cen 
tre  of  their  escort,  turning,  from  time  to  time,  watchful 
e}-es  to  the  distant  ridges  from  which  the  envoys  who 
were  to  bring  them  release  must  come.  The  1st  Dra- 


196  BABY  RUE. 


goons  were  marching  in  beautiful  order,  forming,  with 
the  .mounted  volunteers  and  the  two  companies  of 
infantry  who  brought  up  the  rear  with  about  a  dozen 
arnry-wagons,  a  train  nearlj-  a  mile  in  length.  There 
were  occasional  stops  to  cut  a  passage  for  the  wagons 
through  the  closely  interlocked  plum-trees  that  spread 
over  hundreds  of  acres,  sometimes  so  successfully  dis 
puting  the  path  that  the  train  would  be  forced  to  go 
round  long  distances.  In  and  through  these  orchards 
•were  patches  of  wild  currant  and  raspberry  bushes,  and 
in  sandy  spots  the  brilliant  leaves  of  the  prickly-pear 
caught  in  a  network  the  late-blossoming  running  rose- 
vines  that  half  hid  the  dangerous  coil  of  some  huge 
snake  that  had  not  yet  sought  its  winter  quarters. 

Colonel  Kearny  had  instructed  the  Indians  released 
after  the  arrest  of  the  chiefs  to  send  a  deputation  to  the 
eastern  point  of  the  Witchita  Mountains  with  the  answer 
of  the  Comanches  and  Kiowas.  The  train  had  made  a 
leisurely  march  to  give  the  time  needed.  The  belief 
was  general  among  the  officers  that  the  Pawnees  would 
either  be  given  up  or  sent  instantly  out  of  the  country  ; 
but  in  the  latter  case  no  one  doubted  that  the  little 
daughter  of  Leszinksky  would  be  detained  b}*  the  Co 
manches,  and  exchanged  for  the  captive  chiefs.  The 
only  malcontents  with  that  belief  were  the  mounted  vol 
unteers,  whose  families  or  neighbors  had  been  among 
the  victims  of  the  late  massacre,  and  who  could  illy  be 
propitiated,  by  the  release  of  one  prisoner,  into  willing 
ness  to  let  the  perpetrators  of  outrages  they  were  in 
arms  to  avenge  go  free.  Their  voice  was  still  for 
war. 

At  sundown,  two  days  after  crossing  the  Washita, 
Colonel  Kearny  arrived  at  the  given  rendezvous,  but  as 
yet  not  an  Indian  had  the}'  seen,  though  the  very  silence 
and  solitariness  of  the  far-stretching  plains  which  at  this 
season  were  usually  the  grazing  grounds  of  hundreds  of 
herds  of  buffalo  and  wild  horses,  were  the  most  indubi 
table  proof  of  their  recent  presence.  The  command 
camped  for  the  night,  still  trusting  to  the  coming  of  the 
envoys  the  following  day.  The  pickets  were  carefully 


THE  CONFLICT.  197 

posted,  a  cordon  of  sentries  surrounded  the  camp,  and 
a  guard  was  placed  about  the  captive  chiefs.  Just  be 
fore  dawn  an  alarm  shot  from  the  outpost,  and  the  start 
ling  cry  of  "Indians!"  quickly  brought  the  command 
under  arms.  The  fusillade  which  opened  immediately 
and  the  defiant  ring  of  the  wild  war-whoop  were  the  an 
swer  of  the  Comanches  to  Colonel  Kearny's  demand  for 
the  marauders  and  their  prisoner.  The  reports  from 
the  outposts  were,  "Indians  by  the  hundred  advancing 
to  surround  the  camp." 

The  first  shot  had  wakened  every  sleeper,  and,  in 
less  time  than  the  telling  takes,  brought  them  into  line, 
armed  and  equipped  for  battle.  At  the  first  onset  the 
Americans  suffered  a  heavy  loss.  The  horses  of  two 
companies,  and  the  mules  belonging  to  the  wagons,  were 
stampeded.  Trusting  to  security  from  attack  given  by 
the  presence  of  the  chiefs  held  as  hostages,  the  horses 
had  been  looseby  hobbled,  and  left  to  graze  at  the  foot 
of  the  peak  near  a  little  stream.  The  teamsters  and 
herders  hastened  to  secure  them,  but  it  was  too  late : 
the  Comanches  were  among  them,  driving  them  to  the 
open  plain,  while  effectually  screening  themselves  from 
sight  by  lying  at  length  along  their  horses'  sides ; 
whence  an  occasional  arrow,  sped  by  a  strong,  sinewy 
arm,  struck  and  stung  to  death  some  hapless  herder  as  he 
gazed  in  astonishment  at  the  strange  spectacle  of  his 
own  horses  driven  by  riderless  steeds  that  swept  by  him 
in  the  dim  light. 

Captain  Moore's  depleted  little  company  had  picketed 
their  horses  near  b}^  those  of  Beall's  Scouts.  Almost  at 
the  sound  of  that  first  ringing  shot  from  the  outpost,  the 
two  "  fighting  Bens"  were  afoot.  They  mounted  in  hot 
haste  and  reported  to  the  colonel,  who  sent  Moore  to 
the  outposts  and  Beall  to  increase  the  guard  around  the 
chiefs. 

The  lean  sabreur  was  one  of  the  few  who  had  antici 
pated  evil,  and  so  was  ready  when  the  warning  shot 
wakened  him. 

Apprehensions  never  weighed  a  feather  with  Moore 
when  a  superior  officer  was  about,  to  take  the  responsi- 


1 98  BABY  RUE. 

bility  from  his  broad  shoulders  ;  so  he  was  sleeping  the 
sleep  that  comes  with  carelessness  of  care  :  but  with  the 
instinct  of  a  soldier  he  grasped  his  weapons  and  sprang 
to  the  horse  that  was  being  saddled  near  by.  Bare 
headed,  coatless,  with  his  naked  feet  thrust  in  his  stir 
rups,  he  led  his  men  to  meet  the  ftying  picket-guard. 
Thej'  were  none  too  soon :  the  pursuers  were  pressing 
at  their  heels.  The  attack  was  being  made  from  every 
quarter  of  the  compass.  Indians  were  swarming  on  the 
dimly-lit  plain.  A  party  of  about  two  hundred  splen- 
didty-mounted  warriors  had  taken  advantage  of  a  little 
ravine,  to  pass  a  sentr}-  who  was  watching  the  masses 
in  the  distance,  moving  like  shadows  in  that  indistinct 
light.  At  the  stumbling  of  a  horse  he  turned  quickly, 
and  was  tomahawked  as  he  fired  his  musket.  Moore 
heard  the  sentry's  last  warning,  and  came  up  with  his 
little  band  of  dragoons.  From  the  ravine  there  was  a 
rush  of  dusky  horsemen,  then  a  quick  trampling  of  iron 
hoofs,  a  sharp  rattle  of  musketry,  a  whizzing  of  arrows 
and  rifle-balls,  exultant  war-whoop  and  defiant  cheers, 
a  clash  of  sabres  leaving  their  scabbards,  and  then  a 
hand-to-hand  conflict,  with  a  frightful  chorus  of  groans 
and  j-ells  and  oaths,  and,  to  increase  the  din,  the  almost 
human  cries  of  horses  in  the  frenzy  of  pain  or  the  agony 
of  death. 

Outnumbered  and  hard  pressed,  the  little  squadron 
gave  wa}' ;  step  by  step  they  were  forced  backward, 
but  their  faces  were  to  the  foe.  Never  had  the  mettle 
of  the  men  been  so  tried,  never  had  it  rung  so  true. 
The  indomitable  courage,  the  obstinate  pluck,  of  the 
Anglo-Saxon  was  opposed  to  a  savage  foe,  who  fought 
bravely  and  well. 

Moore,  who  had  led  the  advance,  was  in  the  very 
thick  of  the  fight.  Thus  far  they  had  saved  their 
wounded ;  the  dead  they  were  compelled  to  leave.  A 
junior  officer,  fighting  by  his  leader,  fell  from  his  saddle, 
mortally  wounded,  but  living.  With  fiendish  yells  the 
Indians  pressed  forward.  He  looked  imploringly  to 
Moore,  who,  reckless  of  himself,  stooped  to  lift  him 
to  his  horse. 


THE   CONFLICT.  199 


"  No,  Captain;  I  am  dying.  Only,  for  God's  sake, 
shoot  me,  so  I  shall  not  fall  into  their  hands  alive." 

Moore  looked  up,  as  a  soldier,  who  had  given  his  life 
to  protect  his  officer  for  this  one  moment,  fell  dead. 
There  was  no  hope.  Behind  them,  the  infernal  noise  of 
battle  proved  that  none  could  come  to  their  aid.  He 
himself  was  bleeding  from  a  dozen  wounds.  With  one 
desperate  effort  he  cleaved  the  head  of  the  Indian  who 
was  swinging  his  tomahawk  for  its  flight ;  and  then  the 
last  load  in  his  pistol  went  straight  through  the  brain  of 
the  young  officer,  who  smiled  his  thanks  as  the  muzzle 
touched  his  temple.  Half-blinded  by  the  blood  that 
streamed  from  a  cut  on  his  head,  Moore  fought  on :  it 
was  all  he  could  do,  for  now  his  only  thought  was  a  con 
stant  echo  of  that  pitiful  praj'er,  "not  to  fall  into  the 
enemy's  hands  alive." 

On  the  opposite  side  of  the  camp  the  rifles  of  the 
volunteers  were  doing  deadly  work.  The  splendid 
marksmen  of  the  frontier  were  glutting  their  vengeance 
with  lives.  An  empty  saddle  or  a  horse  motionless  on 
the  plain  counted  for  every  bullet  fed  to  those  murder 
ous  weapons. 

Three  times  the  Indians  charged  within  ten  feet  of 
where  the  volunteers  lay,  slightly  protected  by  a  little 
swell  the  waters  had  washed  there  ages  ago.  Three  times 
they  had  been  driven  back  by  those  cool  fighters,  who 
had  waited  until  every  shot  was  a  certainty.  Yet  here 
and  there  bloody  gaps  in  the  line  of  defence  told  of  the 
wounded,  of  the  sufferers  carried  hastily  behind  the 
wagons,  where  the  surgeon  and  his  assistants  —  those 
premeditated  sarcasms  .of  war  —  awaited  the  work 
wrought  for  them  out  of  healthful  human  bodies.  There 
was  no  slack  now  :  from  where  the  infantry  fought,  from 
Colonel  Kearny's  dismounted  dragoons,  from  every  quar 
ter  of  the  camp,  men  came  bearing  burdens,  — burdens 
dripping  a  deadly  dew  of  crimson  life-drops. 

The  gray  dawn  paled  and  faded  into  misty  whiteness, 
dying  of  sorrow  and  shame  for  the  story  of  suffering  and 
sin  it  must  carry  to  the  Great  Unseen.  The  new  day 
blushed  at  ifs  birth  that  it  must  bear  the  burden  of  this 


200  BABY  RUE. 


barbarity,  the  blame  of  this  blasphemy  against  the  bond 
of  human  brotherhood.  The  chirping  of  the  birds  ere 
they  left  their  nests,  the  twittering  prelude  of  their 
thankful  chorus,  was  hushed  ;  their  songs  were  silenced, 
as  they  swept  swift- winged  from  the  sounds  and  sights 
of  slaughter. 

From  a  bath  of  blood  uprose  a  flaming  sun ;  and  as 
if  he  had  lit  anew  the  torch  of  battle,  the  struggle  raged 
afresh.  The  spirit  of  Cain  was  a-field.  Anger,  Hate, 
Murder  —  the  fabled  Furies  —  had  crept,  not  from  the 
nether  world,  but  from  the  covered  recesses  of  human 
hearts,  and  cried,  "  Kill!  " 

The  broadening  light  clearly  revealed  to  Colonel 
Kearny  the  perilous  position  of  Captain  Moore  and  his 
handful  of  men.  He  instantly  ordered  to  their  relief  a 
detachment  from  Eustis's,  under  Carson,  together  with 
Burgwin's  company,  whose  horses  had  not  been  lost  by 
the  stampede.  It  was  time.  A  sergeant  and  eleven 
men  were  all  that  were  left  of  the  detachment  that  had 
ridden  to  the  outposts  ;  and  these  were  fighting  with  the 
stubbornness  of  despair  around  the  bold  dragoon,  who 
was  lying  crushed  and  helpless  where  he  had  fallen  from 
the  horse  that  was  shot  under  him,  not  twem"y  paces 
distant  from  the  young  officer,  whose  mutilated  and 
trampled  corpse  was  an  almost  unrecognizable  thing  of 
horror.  Moore  was  alive  and  conscious,  though  the  life- 
blood  was  running  in  crimson  streams  from  a  dozen 
gaping  wounds. 

Reckless  of  the  approaching  reinforcement,  the  In 
dians  pressed  closer  around  the  little  circle,  apparently 
determined  to  finish  their  work  at  any  cost.  Burgwin's 
greatest  disadvantage  was  having  to  risk  the  lives  of  the 
beleaguered  party  if  he  fired  at  their  antagonists.  Speed 
and  their  sabres  were  the  only  trust  of  the  rescuers  ;  so 

"  Into  the  jaws  of  Death, 
Into  the  mouth  of  Hell," 

rode  the  dragoons. 

Hate  could  not  have  done  so  well  as  the  unselfish 
friendship  that  led  the  way  inside  of  that  doomed  cir- 


THE   CONFLICT.  2OI 


cle,  where  brave  men  despaired  of  life  until  the  clash  of 
their  comrades'  steel  rang  out  the  story  of  soldierly 
devotion. 

At  the  same  instant  Burgwin  and  Carson  dismounted 
beside  the  fallen  officer.  He  was  lifted  as  tenderly  as 
might  be  to  a  horse  in  front  of  a  trooper ;  and  with  one 
bold  charge  through  circling  foes,  they  reached  the  camp. 

In  obedience  to  Colonel  Kearny's  command,  Major 
Beall  had  hastened  to  the  infantry  quarters  at  the  base 
of  the  peak  where  the  captive  Comanches  were  guarded. 
He  was  too  late  ;  the  chiefs  had  escaped.  Warned  by 
some  signal  of  the  intended  attack,  they  had  managed  to 
cut  their  bonds,  though  constantly  watched  by  the  guard 
around  the  camp-fire. 

At  the  moment  the  first  shot  was  fired  at  the  outpost, 
there  came  from  the  apparently  inaccessible  side  of  the 
mountain-peak  a  shower  of  arrows.  Before  the  dazed 
infantrymen  recovered  from  the  confusion  into  which  they 
were  thrown,  a  body  of  horsemen  swept  past  their  fire,  — 
rescuing  the  captive  chiefs,  and  leaving  in  their  trail  a  line 
of  mangled  and  scalped  corpses,  yet  quivering  and  warm 
when  Captain  Alexander  found  them.  The  guard,  a  lieu 
tenant  and  twenty  men,  belonged  to  his  company.  Only 
two  soldiers  had  escaped  the  slaughter :  they  had  gone  for 
fuel,  and  were  returning  as  the  Indians  charged.  One 
ran  to  the  captain's  tent,  and  then  to  the  scouts'  near  by, 
to  give  the  alarm  ;  the  other  barely  escaped  the  toma 
hawk  of  the  chief  who  led  the  attacking  part}',  and  who 
had  reined  in  his  horse  —  a  powerful  gray  stallion  —  to 
defend  their  retreat  while  the  late  captives  were  being 
mounted.  Captain  Alexander  was  questioning  this  sol 
dier  when  Beall  arrived.  The  description  of  the  chief 
convinced  Beall  it  was  Lo-loch-to-hoo-la. 

It  was  no  longer  possible  to  doubt  the  existence  of  an 
offensive  and  defensive  alliance  of  the  Indians  of  the 
plains,  when  such  apparently  irreconcilable  enemies  as 
the  Comanches  and  the  Pawnees  were  on  the  war-path 
together.  Had  Major  Beall  still  doubted,  the  prisoners 
—  a  Comanchc,  two  Pawnees,  and  a  Witchita  Indian  — 
soon  brought  in  would  have  dispelled  the  doubt. 


202  BABY  RUE. 


The  scouts  had  reached  the  fire  in  time  to  give  the 
Indian  horsemen  a  parting  volley,  and  then,  without 
waiting  for  orders,  climbed  the  abrupt  and  rugged  side 
of  the  conical  peak  at  the  base  of  which  the  command 
was  encamped.  Over  and  around  huge  masses  of 
coarse,  soft,  flesh-colored  granite  that  stood  out  in 
broken  and  jagged  crags ;  up  the  acclivities  to  where 
stunted  cedars  grew  on  stony  ledges ;  behind  rough 
edges  and  broken  points  of  lofty  cliffs,  —  they  chased 
the  flying  archers,  whose  weapons  at  close  quarters  were 
useless. 

Through  the  din  of  rattling  musketry  and  whizzing 
rifle-balls  in  the  camp,  of  Indian  war-whoops,  and  hoarse 
cries  of  command  from  the  circled  dragoons  on  the 
plains,  Beall  and  Alexander  could  hear  the  sharp  crack 
of  the  revolvers  and  the  shouts  of  triumph  from  the  dizzy 
heights  where  those  unequalled  mountaineers  and  marks 
men  pursued  the  routed  enemy.  Their  work  was  short, 
bloody,  and  decisive.  They  returned,  bringing  one 
dead  and  two  wounded  scouts,  and  four  prisoners. 

They  had  other  trophies  besides  the  captured  sav 
ages, —  horrible,  barbaric  trophies  of  their  mountain- 
chase  ;  gory  scalp-locks,  wild  offerings  of  stern  grief, 
funereal  flowers  of  black  and  crimson,  the  mourning 
of  vengeance,  gathered  by  hands  hastily  unclinched 
from  the  grasp  of  stained  weapons  to  lay  at  the 
feet  of  the  dead  infantrymen.  Civilization  had  stifled 
.  her  creeds  on  the  altar  of  Barbarism.  War,  the  Impera- 
tor,  who  checks  the  growth  of  the  godlike,  whose 
mailed  hand  arrests  and  whose  triumphs  brutalize  ages 
and  peoples,  had  again  trampled  under  foot  the  pitying, 
peace-loving  tenets  of  the  gentle  Nazarene. 


THE  CONFLICT.  203 


CHAPTER   XXVI. 

HE  is  as  full  of  valor  as  of  kindness  ; 
Princely  in  both. 

SHAKSPEAEE. 

THE  evening  Colonel  Kearny's  command  crossed 
the  Washita,  Leszinksky's  preparations  for  defence 
were  complete.  Everybody  had  worked  with  a  will. 
At  sundown  the  horses  and  mules  were  corralled  in  the 
space  between  the  wagons,  at  the  base  of  the  little  knoll. 
Supper  was  over.  The  two  }'oung  subalterns  were 
pitching  quoits,  and  around  them  was  gathered  a  group 
of  lookers-on.  Others  of  the  soldiers,  including  Pike's 
newly-organized  volunteers,  were  sitting  around  the 
dying  embers,  where  a  young  negro  was  picking  a 
banjo  he  had  contrived  to  hide  in  one  of  the  wagons, 
despite  the  vigilance  of  the  train-master. 

Leszinksky  was  sitting  alone  on  the  gun-carriage 
when  Pike  came  up  the  little  hillock  with  some  buffalo- 
rugs  which,  with  much  solemn  shaking  and  grave  de 
liberation  that  involved  repeated  change,  he  finally 
settled  to  his  satisfaction  in  a  pallet  near  the  slight 
earthworks.  Then  the  cause  of  all  this  care  was  made 
manifest. 

"  You  better  lay  down  hyah,  Lootinent,  and  git  a  nap, 
sir.  I  hearn  3-011  put  them  young  gentlemen  on  the  fust 
watch,  and  so  I  knowed  you  was  a  gwine  to  take  the 
last  half,  the  Injun  time,  j'o'self,  sir.  Oscar  ain't  hyar 
to  take  care  on  3-011,  so  I  jus'  made  free  to  git  these 
things  o*  yourn  and  bring  'em  up  hyar.  You  ain't  slep' 
much  sence  we  left  Bouie's  Hill.  Now  that's  weakenin', 
and  a  mighty  poor  way  to  do  if  thar 's  gwine  to  be  fi'tin' 


204  BABY  RUE. 


hyar.  You  see,  sir,  it 's  most  apt  to  be  slow  work  they  '11 
give  us.  We  ar'  too  well  fixed  to  be  scooped  and  swal- 
lered  in  thar  fust  rush,  so  we  may  have  a  long  spell  of 
it." 

"  You  seem  sure  they  will  attack  us,"  said  the  young 
officer  as  he  smiled  his  thanks  and  took  possession  of 
the  pallet,  while  the  giant,  with  his  usual  slow  separa 
tion  of  action  and  word,  took  the  vacated  seat  on  the 
gun-carriage  before  answering. 

"  I  ain't  nary  doubt  of  it,  sir.  You  see  them  smokes 
over  thar  behind  that  ridge  to  the  northeast?" 
"  Yes  ;  I  have  been  watching  them." 
"  Well,  they  mean  bizness.  They  ar'  nigh  onto  right 
behind  us.  And  out  }*onder  beyont  the  Washitaw  is  a 
little  thin  line  that  sometimes  breaks  into  balloon  swells. 
You  've  got  to  look  close,  sir,  or  you  mought  n't  notice. 
It  hardly  shows  agin  the  haz}-  sunset ;  but  it'll  tell  them 
Injuns  behind  us  that  thar 's. Injuns  betwixt  us  and  the 
reg'ment.  And  now  off  thar  to  the  south  whar  the  little 
creek  turns  back  to  git  to  the  Washitaw,  thar 's  another 
lot  o'  broken  puffs  just  a  gwine  up.  Thar  won't  be  no 
lack  o'  Injuns  hyar  'fore  to-morrow,  sir." 

"I  think  you  are  right,  Pike:  they  will  probably 
attack  us  in  the  earl}*  dawn.  Well,  we  are  ready." 

"Yes,  Lootinent,  we  couldn't  a-got  fixed  no  better 
'an  we  ar'.  Every  empty  place  in  them  wagons  and 
betwixt  'em  is  packed  with  the  grass  the  bo}'s  has  cut. 
It  '11  stop  bullets  and  arrers  from  the  hosses,  and  feed 
'em  too.  And  we  've  burnt  all  the  grass  near  by  the 
camp,  so  they  can't  burn  us  out.  We  've  a  plenty  of 
pervishuns  and  ammunishun  and  water,  and  a  set  o' 
fellers  that  I  don't  think  '11  flinch  ;  and  this  time  we  've 
got,  nigher  'an  usual,  right  on  our  side." 

"Then  you  do  not  think,  Pike,  we  always  have  the 
right  on  our  side  ?  " 

"Not  allus,  Lootinent.  We've  been  a  fi'tin'  Injuns 
most  ever  sence  I  jined  the  army.  We  've  been  allus  a- 
tellin  'em  to  go  from  somewhar,  and  a-pushin'  'em  to 
make  'em  go.  I  did  n't  see  it  so  much  at  fust,  cos  I 
wah  n't  a-lookin'  at  it  that  way.  In  the  Black  Hawk 


THE   CONFLICT.  205 

War  I  on'y  seen  what  they  done  to  us.  They  was  a- 
killin'  settlers  and  a-burniu'  houses,  and  we  did  n't  stop 
to  ask  whose  land  it  was ;  nor  how  Injuns  had  been 
killed  and  cheated.  The  army  was  sent  thar  fur  ven 
geance  —  and  we  tuck  it.  They  did  n't  call  it  that,  but 
that's  what  it  was.  I  sometimes  think,  sir,  the  ven 
geance  t'  other  way  '11  come  yit.  In  the  Seminolie  War, 
the  day  I  was  one  o'  the  guard  of  honor  —  that  was 
what  they  miscalled  it,  sir  —  when  our  general  asked 
'em  all  into  a  council,  and  then  had  us  seize  'em  and 
tie  'em,  I  larnt  thar  was  two  sides  mought  be  looked 
at.  And  the  side  the  Injuns  saw  that  day  wah  n't  one 
I  'd  like  to  be  anserable  fur  up  thar." 

Pike  bared  his  head  as  he  looked  up  to  the  blue  sky. 
Leszinksky  moved  uneasily.  The  blunt  soldier  had 
roughly  touched  a  hurt.  Leszinksky  had  begun  to  see 
as  through  a  glass  darkly  that  the  savage  was  not  wholly 
responsible  for  the  savagery  of  the  border.  In  the  last 
few  days  the  young  officer  had  found  two  sides  to  the  ques 
tion.  This  ward  of  the  nation  had  been  taught  by  the 
example  of  the  nation  to  break  faith.  It  was  in  Les- 
zinksky's  blood  to  value  courage,  to  believe  that  in  its 
higher  expression  it  could  only  coexist  with  truth. 
Coacoochee  and  Lo-loch-to-hoo-la  were  new  illustra 
tions  in  his  Indian  study.  Major  Beall's  histories  of 
the  fights  in  the  Everglades  were  given  with  the  color 
ing  of  the  partisan,  but  even  that  coloring  brought  noble 
figures  from  the  background  of  swamp  and  hummock. 
In  the  major's  chronicles,  Coacoochee  was  a  patriot 
and  Osccola  a  hero.  No  way  of  telling  their  story 
could  mar  that  noble  epic,  —  the  unwritten  Iliad  of  the 
Seminoles  and  Mickasuckies,  To  this  Leszinksky  was 
adding  his  own  late  experience.  The  savage  who  had 
captured  his  child,  had,  to  save  her,  risked  life  and 
relinquished  chieftainship.  There  was  a  hot  flush  of 
shame,  a  bitter  scorn  for  his  own  lack  of  judgment, 
when  he  thought  of  his  offer  of  payment  to  the  man  he 
had  misunderstood  and  insulted,  because  he  belonged 
to  the  contemned  tribe  of  a  wronged  race.  He  was 
glad  when  Pike  broke  the  course  of  his  thought. 


206  BABY  RUE. 


"Lootinent,  will  this  gun"  —  and  he  touched  the 
howitzer —  "  fling  a  shell  as  fur  as  that  clump  o'  trees 
over  yonder  whar  the  creek  turns  round  and  runs  into 
that  deep  gulley  to  the  Washitaw  ?  " 

"  Yes,  easily." 

"  Then  I  wish  you  'd  aim  it  exact,  sir,  fur  thar  'fore  it 
gits  dark.  I  'm  a  thinkin'  it 's  right  thar  the  Injuns  '11 
crawl  up.  It's  the  nighest  they  can  git  to  us  without 
bein'  seen,  and  it's  most  like  whar  they'll  crowd." 

The  gun  was  soon  sighted  and  ready  to  carry  its  sa 
lute.  Buford  had  called  to  know  if  aivything  was  wrong, 
but  being  negatived  had  gone  on  with  his  game.  The 
soldiers  had  stopped  their  stories  and  the  banjo  was 
hushed.  Leszinksky  was  sitting  on  his  buffalo-rugs, 
but  his  anxious  look  over  the  prairie  told  of  wandering 
thought,  when  the  banjo,  touched  by  a  more  skilful 
hand,  rung  out  the  jolly  chorus  of  a  drinking  song. 
For  a  little  while  Pike  unconsciously  whistled  the  re 
frain  ;  then,  stopping  suddenly,  asked,  — 

"Lootinent,  what's  the  reason  the  devil's  got  all 
the  best  tunes  ?  " 

"  I  do  not  think  he  has,  Pike." 

"  Did  3'ou  hear  that  last,  sir?  Why  'twas  just  full  o' 
laughs  and  hot  blood-spurts  that  sets  }*our  fingers  ting- 
lin'  fur  a  bottle,  and  makes  jour  throat  hot  and  dry  like. 
I  would  n't  a-liked  Starns  to  hearn  it  if  thar  was  a 
sutler  or  a  trader  in  miles  of  him.  That 's  the  devil's 
music,  sir :  it  jus'  puts  all  the  good  to  sleep  and  sets 
every  sin  on  watch  for  a  chance.  You  can't  get  shet 
of  it  nuther,  — it  rings  like  into  }'our  veins.  I  'm  fond 
o'  tunes,  and  they  allus  seem  to  stay  in  my  ears  whether 
I  will  or  no." 

An  order  from  Buford  sent  the  men  to  the  creek  to 
fill  the  water-barrels,  and  the  banjo  was  again  hushed. 
Pike,  who  was  sitting  on  the  ground,  his  arms  on  the 
little  rise,  and  his  bearded  face  in  his  great  brown 
hands,  seemed  possessed  by  the  melody,  softly  hum 
ming  it  and  then  breaking  into  a  whistling  trill  of  its 
catches,  when  suddenl}'  the  evening  air  was  filled  with 
the  noble  measure  of  that  grand  old  hymn,  "  How  firm 
a  foundation,  ye  saints  of  the  Lord." 


THE   CONFLICT.  2O/ 

Leszinksk}'  sung  the  hymn  to  the  close.  The  men 
below  had  finished  their  evening  work  and  were  silently 
listening,  as  also  were  the  young  subalterns  who  were 
sitting  at  the  foot  of  the  little  hillock.  For  a  few  mo 
ments  after  the  singer  ceased,  all  were  silent ;  then  there 
was  a  murmur  of  voices  below  them,  and  in  the  gloam 
ing  Pike  raised  a  tear-stained  face  to  Leszinksky. 

"Thar's  averse  or  two,  Lootinent,  I'd  like  to  lam 
so  be  and  I  can.  If  you  'd  just  say  'em  to  me  a  time 
or  two  tell  I  git  the  words  like.  I  ain't  willin'  to  let  'em 
go.  I  don't  think  I  could  let  'em  go,  but  I  want  to  be 
clar  that  I  've  got  'em  right.  I  hearn  im-  mamm}'  sing 
that  a  long  time  ago.  She  died  when  I  was  on'y  a  little 
chap,  and  I  had  forgot.  But  now  most  like  I  can  git 
some  of  it.  If  you'll  just  commence  "Fear  not"  — 
that 's  whar  I  'd  like  to  begin." 

He  asked  with  the  confidence  of  a  little  child. 
(Surely,  of  such  is  the  kingdom  of  heaven.)  Leszink 
sky  repeated  slowly  and  distinct!}'  these  verses  :  — 

"  Fear  not,  I  am  with  thee,  oh,  be  not  dismayed  ! 
I,  I  am  thy  God,  and  will  still  give  thee  aid  ; 
I  '11  strengthen  thee,  help  thee,  and  cause  thee  to  stand, 
Upheld  by  my  righteous,  omnipotent  hand. 

"  When  through  the  deep  waters  I  call  thee  to  go 
The  rivers  of  woe  shall  not  thee  overflow  ; 
For  I  will  be  with  thee,  thy  troubles  to  bless, 
And  sanctify  to  thee  thy  deepest  distress. 

"  When  through  fiery  trials  thy  pathway  shall  lie, 
My  grace  all-sufficient  shall  be  thy  supply  ; 
The  flame  shall  not  hurt  thee  :  I  only  design 
Thy  dross  to  consume,  and  thy  gold  to  refine." 

Pike  had  interrupted  only  to  turn  his  teacher  back 
when  he  thought  the  lesson  sufficiently  long.  He  slowly 
repeated  the  verses  with  Leszinkskj- ;  then  the  repeti 
tion  was  aided  by  the  setting  of  the  words  in  the  tune, 
again  and  again  repeated  until  memory  was  caught  and 
tied  by  the  magic  of  melody.  The  musical  gift  of  the 
pupil  was  so  true  it  reproduced  even  the  enunciation 
and  intonation  of  the  tutor ;  and  Leszinksky  fell  asleep 


208  BABY  RUE. 


to  the  low  diapason  of  a  matchless  bass,  singing  in  a  sort 
of  awe-stricken  undertone  of  wondering  reverence  :  — 
/ 

"  Fear  not,  I  am  with  thee,  oh,  be  not  dismayed  ! 
I,  I  am  thy  God,  and  will  still  give  thee  aid." 

Contrary  to  their  expectation,  the  morning  dawned 
peacefull}'.  The  little  camp  wakened  merry  and  hope 
ful.  The  talk  was  of  the  regiment,  —  of  how  long  it 
would  take  Colonel  Kearny  to  reach  the  proposed  coun 
cil-ground,  and  what  were  likely  to  be  the  terms  of  the 
child's  ransom.  Even  Leszinksky  was  hopeful ;  he 
could  not  help  trusting  to  the  promise  he  felt  was  im 
plied  in  those  last  words  of  Lo-loch-to-hoo-la.  Pike 
alone  seemed  not  to  share  the  general  cheeriness.  He 
had  relapsed  into  his  usual  silent  manner ;  only  in  place 
of  the  far-away,  dreamy  look  in  the  blue  eyes,  there 
was  evident  and  constant  watchfulness.  The  men  were 
about  to  hobble  the  horses  and  turn  them  out  on  the 
prairie,  when  their  recently  elected  chief  spoke  a  few 
words  to  his  second  in  command,  and  the  method  was 
changed :  the  animals  were  picketed  near  the  creek. 

Seeing  the  change,  Leszinksk}'  called  from  the  top  of 
the  knoll,  "  I  see,  Pike,  you  are  yet  distrustful  of  our 
neighbors." 

The  giant  came  slowly  up  the  little  eminence,  look 
ing  backward  occasionally.  When  he  reached  the  young 
officer  he  touched  his  shoulder,  and,  with  a  sweep  of 
his  great  arm,  describing  a  circle,  he  said,  "Yes,  Loo- 
tinent,  I  am.  Look  around  thar.  At  da3'light  this 
mornin'  thar  signals  was  a  gwine  from  every  side  on 
us.  I  thought,  sir,  you  must  a-seen  'em." 

"  May  it  not  be  a  notification  of  the  council?  " 

"  Now  I  put"  it  to  3'our  own  sense  o'  Injuns,  Loo- 
tinent,  —  fur  you  has  larnt  somethin'  on  the  plains,  —  to 
your  own  sense.  AVho  is  thar  about  hyar  to  notify? 
This  land  belongs  —  leastwise  till  the  Government 
takes  it  agin  —  to  the  Chickasaws  and  Choctaws,  and 
they  don't  dar'  live  on  it  fur  fear  o'  the  wild  tribes.  So 
it  stands  to  reason  them  smokes  ain't  thar  fur  them. 


THE  CONFLICT.  2OQ 


Now  I  put  it  to  3'ou  —  ain't  they  Comanche  signals? 
Mebb}'  the}^  ar'  tellin'  the  Pawnees  to  go,  but  I  don't 
think  that 's  it.  To  me  it  'pears  most  like  it 's  to  show 
each  other  how  many  on  'em's  about  hyar  and  when  to 
hit  us." 

Without  waiting  further  question,  Pike,  suddenly 
roused  from  his  constitutional  slowness,  hastened  down 
the  hillside  to  the  creek ;  and,  after  a  moment's  in 
spection  of  the  bank,  called  in  stentor  tones  to  his  men 
to  bring  spades  and  axes.  Then  he  shouted  this  ex 
planation  to  Leszinksk}7 :  — 

"  Keep  a  good  lookout  up  thar,  Lootinent,  —  you  and 
them  young  gentlemen  :  watch  every  side,  sir,  and  let 
us  have  all  the  men  down  hyar,  sir.  They  're  all  wanted. 
We've  got  to  dam  this  creek  mighty  quick  or  we  won't 
have  no  water  hyar  long :  the  Injuns  has  dammed  it  up 
thar  whar  it  cuts  through  the  ridge,  or  else  turned  it. 
Mebby  they  larnt  some  o'  our  young  lootinent's  in- 
gineerin'."  And  a  quiet  smile  that  sparkled  in  the  clear 
63-68  showed  that  when  the  giant  was  roused  out  of  his 
heaviness  by  the  pressure  of  danger,  there  was  a  grain 
of  humor  somewhere  stirred  in  the  slow-moving  brain. 

In  a  few  hours  the  dam  was  finished,  and  to  econo 
mize  the  water  in  the  holes  below  it,  they  steeped  in 
them  dry  grasses  newly  cut  from  the  prairie,  and  then 
packed  the  wet  mass  over  that  in  and  around  the  wag 
ons  :  thus  burning  arrows  shot  by  the  savages,  and 
animals  that  might  have  to  do  for  some  time  without 
water,  were  provided  for.  The  rippling  stream,  now 
quietly  widening  into  a  silent  pond  above  the  camp, 
was  soon  an  empty  bed,  with  here  and  there  a  few  small, 
still  pools.  Leszinksky  and  the  two  young  subalterns 
had  kept  a  close  watch  from  the  top  of  the  knoll.  There 
was  an  indistinct  movement  beneath  the  clump  of  trees 
that  Pike  had  distrusted,  and  a  powerful  field-glass  re 
vealed  the  presence  of  Indians,  who  were  evidently 
watching  the  camp.  Pike  was  called  to  the  council  on 
the  hillock.  Leszinksky  gave  him  the  glass,  asking,  — 

"  Who  are  they,  and  what  are  they  doing  there?" 

After  several  trials,  the  giant,  getting  the  focus,  looked 
14 


210  BABY  RUE. 


long  and  steadily,  then,  handing  the  glass  back  in  his 
usual  deliberate  way,  said,  — 

"They  ar'  Comanches  mostly,  but  there  ar'  some 
Pawnees.  They  ar'  all  in  thar  war-paint,  and  the}7  ar' 
waitin'  to  begin  thar  deviltry.  They  must  count  by 
hundreds  round  us,  Lootinent,  or  they  would  n't  a-risked 
our  seein'  em,  or  a-tuck  daylight  fur  the  damming  of 
the  creek  up  thar." 

"  Do  you  think  they  will  attack  us  at  once?  " 

"  No,  sir :  the}7  think  most  like  that  they  've  got  the 
game  in  thar  hands  and  kin  wait ;  and  then  I  can't  jus' 
make  out  what  the}7  ar'  a-waitin'  fur,  unless  its  some 
chief  that  ain't  thar  yet.  It  can't  be  fur  the  veg'ment  to 
git  furder  away :  if 't  was  that,  they  would  n't  a-showed 
themselves." 

"  What  do  you  think  would  be  the  effect  if  we  sent  a 
flag  of  truce,  to  propose  a  '  talk '  ?  " 

"  In  my  'pinyun  it  would  be  the  very  wust  thing  you 
could  do,  sir.  They  purty  much  don't  believe  in  them 
kind  o'  flags.  It's  like  a  znvite  to  a  council:  it's  the 
spider  a-axin'  the  fly.  That  flag  up  thar,  sir,"  pointing 
to  the  national  flag  that  waved  over  the  earthworks, 
"  is  the  best  thing  fur  now.  They  know  what  it  says,  — 
that  if  they  begin  a  fight  when  it's  thar  we  ain't  a  gwine 
to  let  it  come  down  till  we  've  done  all  men  could  do  to 
holp  it.  But  look,  sir  !  They  ain't  a  gwine  to  wait  fur 
no  wvite.  You  see  them  lines  a-movin'  over  the  ridges? 
We'll  have  all  we  can  do  in  less  'an  no  time." 

Pike  hurried  back  to  the  teamsters,  and  in  a  few  mo 
ments  the  horses  were  within  the  inclosure,  and  the  wag 
ons  that  made  the  gateway  pulled  into  place.  The  infan 
trymen  and  the  dismounted  dragoons  were  behind  the 
earthworks  on  the  little  knoll  where  Leszinksky  and 
his  aids  watched  the  advancing  horsemen.  From  be 
tween  the  wagons  the  clouded  barrels  of  Mississippi 
rifles  were  held  by  marksmen  who  had  learned  the  one 
great  economy  of  the  frontier,  —  never  to  waste  a  shot. 
For  nearly  an  hour,  a  distant  and  uninterested  spectator 
would  have  thought  the  wide  prairie  the  practice-ground 
of  the  Comanche  cavalry,  as  the  long  line  of  horsemen 


THE   CONFLICT.  211 

debouched  upon  the  plain,  and  formed  into  files  that 
commenced  slowly  to  surround  the  camp.  But  each 
revolution  of  the  circle  narrowed  the  diameter  and  in 
creased  the  speed,  until  the  Indian  line  was  whirling  in 
a  furious  gallop  within  easy  rifle-shot  of  the  encircled 
knoll. 

Then  the  waiting,  patient  temper  of  the  young  com 
mander  of  the  post  was  shown.  He  gave  low-spoken 
directions  to  the  subalterns  beside  him,  and  called,  — 

"  Pike  !  Do  not  let  your  men  fire  a  shot  until  I  give 
the  order,  unless  the  Indians  should  suddenly  charge  — 
then  resist  to  the  death.  We  will  not  begin  this  fight, 
neither  will  we  lose  it.  We  know  now  that  the  regi 
ment  over  there  across  the  Washita  is  surrounded  by 
enemies.  The  camp  and  its  supplies  must  be  held  at 
any  and  all  cost.  The  lives  of  our  comrades  may  de 
pend  on  our  holding  it.  I  trust  }*ou,  Pike,  and  I  trust 
the  men  to  obey  the  order." 

"You  can  do  it,  Lootinent.  We'll  wait  and  we'll 
hold  our  groun'.  I'm  eas}'  in  my  mind  'bout  the  right 
this  time,  sir.  Thar  ain't  no  doubt  'bout  what  we  '11  do 
it,  sir.  They  ar'  a  fitin'  over  thar  most  like,  but  it 's 
fur  the  life  of  a  little  child ;  and  we  '11  hold  a  place  of 
Tofiige  fur  'em  hyar,  so  be  and  they  're  wusted.  We  ar' 
clar  in  the  right  this  time,  and  we  '11  hold  it,  won't  we, 
boys  ? " 

The  answer  came  in  a  shout,  — 

"Yes,  by  God!"  and  that  answer  lost  its  apparent 
irreverence  when  the  young  leader  called  out,  — 

"  You  have  sworn  an  oath  to  the  Lord.  Let  us  look 
to  him  for  strength  to  keep  it."  And  the  rapt  face  that 
looked  heaA'enward  had  a  confident,  appealing  look  that 
was  reflected  in  the  faces  of  the  men  around  him. 

Two  cycles  had  passed  since  the  prayer  of  the  Pala 
tine  was  the  inspiration  that  led  his  vengeful  cohorts 
to  the  destruction  of  the  Janissaries  —  two  cycles, 
and  another  Leszinksky  in  silent  speech  thus  appealed 
to  the  God  of  battles  :  — 

"  Father,  aid  us,  that  we  ma}*  stand  fast  and  quit  us 
like  men ;  that  we  may  be  constant  and  prudent  and 


212  BAB Y  RUE. 


merciful,  looking  always  to  thee  who  alone  can  give  us 
the  victory." 

The  amen  to  this  prayer  was  the  ringing  war-whoop 
of  the  savages  as  their  circle  swept  nearer,  sending 
arrows  and  rifle-shot  over  the  knoll  and  through  the 
wagons. 

The  cry  of  a  horse  in  the  death-agony  was  the  first 
note  in  the  overture  of  battle  ;  then  Buford's  dragoons 
and  the  infantrymen  added  volley  after  voile}*,  —  a  full 
crescendo,  through  which  the  trilling  whiz  of  the  rifles 
could  be  heard.  Hard  by  the  little  howitzer  stood  Les- 
zinksky,  watching  the  field,  yet  turning  from  time  to 
time  a  quick  glance  to  the  young  infantry  officer,  who, 
calmly  as  if  on  parade  at  "the  Point,"  was  sending 
shell  after  shell  to  the  clump  of  trees  where  the  waver 
ing  rush  of  the  scattered  Indians  proved  there  were 
wounded  and  dead  to  be  carried  off. 

All  day  long  the  smoke  and  sound  of  battle  filled  the 
air.  Man}7  a  volley  was  wasted  as  the  soldiers  on  the 
knoll  fired  at  the  galloping  line,  where,  from  under  their 
horses'  necks,  the  Comanches  sent  arrows  that  struck 
above  the  earthworks  and  whistled  through  the  canvas 
covering  of  the  wagons  ;  rarely  a  shot  was  lost  that  sped 
from  the  rifles  of  the  men  below. 

Blackened  with  smoke  and  grimed  with  powder,  all 
day  long  the  boy  officer  stood  by  his  gun  ;  jacket  off  and 
hat  thrown  aside,  the  fair,  full  throat  and  round  arms 
bared,  the  damp  brown  hair  brushed  hastily  back  by  a 
hand  that  left  powder-stains,  and  eyes  ablaze  with  the 
fire  of  battle.  At  noon  Leszinksky  had  offered  to  relieve 
him. 

"0,  no !  Please,  Lieutenant,  let  me  stay,  sir.  This 
is  a  splendid  little  gun,  and  I  like  the  work.  Am  I 
firing  too  fast?" 

"There  is  no  fault,  Hancock.  It  is  not  that.  You 
have  been  as  steady  and  cool  as  a  veteran  ;  but  you  need 
rest  and  food." 

"  O,  no,  sir  ;  I  could  not  eat.  It's  my  first  trial,  sir,  — 
my  vigil  of  battle  :  I  must  win  my  spurs  fasting.  The 
breath  of  powder  kills  hunger,  except  the  hunger  for 


THE  CONFLICT.  213 


honor.  But,  Lieutenant,  it  is  a  horror  to  think  of  the 
lives  that  go  out  with  the  flash  of  my  gun." 

"Ah,  my  dear  3'ouug  comrade,  3'ou  think  of  that? 
Keep  the  thought,  let  it  be  a  fear  in  your  heart ;  it  is 
the  only  fear  a  brave  man  may  keep,  — the  fear  for  his 
enem}-,  regret  for  the  blood  he  must  spill.  That  fear, 
side  by  side  with  obedience  to  duty,  and  the  Christian 
may  be  a  soldier." 

As  the  bo}T  looked  up  at  his  3roung  commander  a  soft 
light  came  into  the  clear  eyes  ;  he  held  out  his  hand. 

"  Thank  you,  Lieutenant.  I  understand  now  what  a 
soldier  may  be.  All  day  I  have  tried  not  to  think  of 
my  mother.  She  is  a  Christian,  and  I  feared  to  think 
of  her.  You  see,  my  blood  was  hot  at  first  and  I  was 
glad  when  a  shot  told  ;  then  as  I  cooled  I  saw  the  re 
sults,  —  lives  were  ended :  and  the  thought  of  my  mother 
was  a  pain.  I  see  now,  sir,  that  duty  need  not  banish 
pity.  I  thank  }-ou  for  that ;  and  I  thank  }-ou  for  calling 
me  comrade.  It  is  so  much  to  me  to  have  you  say 
that !  I  have  felt  so  alone  out  here  in  this  new  wa}-  of  liv 
ing,  I  have  so  missed  home  people.  You  see,  at  '  the 
Point,'  my  classmates  were  like  brothers." 

"  I  will  always  call  you  comrade.  With  me,  comrade 
means  brother  :  I  have  no  other." 

The  extended  hand  was  clasped  in  a  close  grasp  while 
they  yet  talked,  and  at  the  close  the  pledge  of  brother 
hood  was  spoken  with  a  look  and  a  silent  pressure  of 
the  hand.  Then  Leszinksky  turned  to  watch  the  enemy, 
and  the  work  of  the  boy  went  on.  The  shells  sped 
swiftly  and  surely  to  ever}'  point  where  for  a  moment 
the  enemy  gathered ;  but  the  j'oung  face  had  now  a 
quiet,  sweet  expression  that  told  of  a  new  and  deep 
experience.  The  instinct  of  feeling  was  being  submitted 
to  the  judgment  of  reason. 

Twice  the  Indians  charged  up  the  side  of  the  knoll 
opposite,  and  out  of  range  of  the  rifles  they  had  learned 
to  dread  ;  they  charged  in  force,  though  the  thinning 
circle  still  swept  threateningly  around  the  camp.  Twice 
Buford  drove  them  back  with  heavy  loss  :  at  close  quar 
ters  the  musketry  volleys  counted.  At  the  second  charge 


214  BABY  RUE. 


the  howitzer  was  trained  down  the  slope,  and  a  raking 
fire  of  grape  forced  back  the  attacking  party,  who  for 
the  first  time  left  their  dead  where  they  fell,  —  a  disaster 
that  to  the  Indian  is  defeat.  They  made  no  effort  to 
charge  again,  but  suddenly  drew  back.  At  sundown 
there  was  no  longer  an  Indian  to  be  seen,  except  the 
corpses  near  the  knoll ;  before  the  twilight  closed,  these 
were  buried. 

Of  Leszinksky's  command,  only  three  were  slightly 
wounded  ;  they  had  not  lost  a  man.  Surely  the  God  of 
battles  had  listened  to  that  pi^er.  At  nightfall,  when 
all  was  hushed,  a  clear,  fresh  tenor  joined  the  baritone 
of  Leszinksky  and  the  bass  of  Pike,  — 

"  Fear  not,  I  am  with  thee,  oh,  be  not  dismayed  !  " 


THE  CONFLICT.  21$ 


CHAPTER  XXVII. 

HER  angel's  face 

As  the  great  eye  of  heaven  shyned  bright, 
And  made  a  sunshine  in  the  shady  place. 

SPENSER. 

WHEN  Burgwin  and  Carson  reached  the  camp, 
Moore  was  dead  ;  yet  there  was  a  thrill  of  bitter 
sweet  in  each  brave  heart  as  the}'  looked  upon  the  bloody 
corpse  of  the  bold  dragoon.  He  had  died  a  soldier's 
death, — died  in  the  arms  of  the  comrades  who  had 
perilled  life  to  come  to  his  aid,  and  at  every  step  back 
ward  had  faced  death  to  save  his  lifeless  body  from 
outrage. 

At  the  council  where  Colonel  Kearny  gathered  his 
officers,  some  few  fiery  advisers  urged  the  advance 
of  the  command  to  the  Indian  villages.  This  course 
the  prudent  thought  of  the  majority  overruled.  The 
escape  of  the  Comanche  chiefs  in  that  desperately  bold 
rush  of  Lo-loch-to-hoo-la  lost  Colonel  Kearny  his  advan 
tage  in  the  matter  of  the  child's  ransom.  In  her  inter 
est,  further  advance  must  be  postponed.  A  truce  must 
now  be  proposed  that  would  include  the  Pawnee  chief 
as  one  of  the  contracting  powers.  It  was  evident  that 
any  demand  for  his  surrender  would  be  useless.  Never 
in  the  history  of  Comanche  warfare  had  the  tribes  been 
so  successfully  led,  so  admirably  handled.  It  was  the 
unanimous  opinion  of  the  officers  present,  all  old  Indian 
fighters,  that  in  the  entire  history  of  the  border  they 
had  never  before  had  opposed  to  them  such  masterly 
generalship.  Every  scout  and  frontiersman  was  ques 
tioned.  The  questioning  was  rich  in  reward :  here  a 


2l6  BABY  RUE. 


bold  stroke,  there  a  bit  of  color,  with  faint  shaclings 
taken  from  Osage  chroniclers  ;  and  as  the  romance  of  the 
great  Pawnee  was  pictured,  general  acclaim  named  him 
the  leader  of  the  Indians,  the  Tecumseh  of  the  South 
west.  Only  Beall  dissented :  the  story  of  the  Pawnee 
warrior,  and  the  Seminole  girl  saved  from  the  burning 
stake,  suggested  to  the  astute  major  the  idea  of  an  alli 
ance  to  which  the  Pawnee  brought  indomitable  courage 
and  ability  to  execute,  but  which  courage  and  ability 
were  subordinate  •  to  warlike  genius  of  a  higher  order 
than  any  that  had  been  schooled  on  the  plains.  Where 
all  said  "  Lo-loch-to-hoo-la,"  as  the  picture  of  the  past 
was  rapidly  sketched,  Beall  saw  behind  the  chief  the  dim 
outline  of  Coacoochee.  Trusting  to  Beall's  judgment, 
it  was  now  an  object  of  the  greatest  importance  to  Colo 
nel  Kearn}'  to  have  positive  knowledge  of  the  position 
and  designs  of  the  Seminoles  now  in  the  Comanche 
country.  Thus  far  not  a  Seminole  had  been  seen  in  the 
ranks  of  the  allied  Indians. 

The  necessity  to  know  what  to  expect  from  the  Semi 
noles  that  were  between  the  command  and  Fort  Gibson, 
together  with  the  losses  he  had  sustained'  and  the  press 
ing  need  to  provide  for  his  numerous  wounded,  decided 
Colonel  Kearny  to  force  his  way  back  to  the  camp  east 
of  the  Washita,  where  he  would  be  in  a  better  condition 
to  think  of  reprisal  or  offer  peace. 

Surrounded  by  the  circling  lines  of  at  least  two  thou 
sand  enemies,  the  dangerous  retreat  began.  The  two 
companies  whose  horses  had  not  been  lost  in  the  stam 
pede  were  dismounted,  and  the  animals  harnessed  to 
the  wagons  (now  filled  with  a  sinister  load  of  wounded 
and  dead) ,  which  were  formed  in  a  double  line  in  the 
centre  of  the  marching  column.  Between  the  wagons, 
on  the  few  spare  horses,  were  mounted  the  slightly 
wounded.  In  front  of  the  column  a  twelve-pound  gun, 
from  time  to  time,  swept  their  pathway  with  grape, 
while  the  little  howitzer  in  the  rear  sent  flying  shells  at 
every  gathering  group  of  Indians  that  ventured  within 
range.  Outside  the  wagons  marched  Cady  and  Alex 
ander's  companies  of  the  6th  Infantry,  and  the  four 


THE   CONFLICT. 


companies  of  dismounted  dragoons  under  Johnston, 
Allen,  Eustis,  and  Burgwin ;  to  the  last  was  added  the 
little  remnant  that  had  escaped  death  when  Moore  fell. 

The  scouts  and  mounted  volunteers  were  engaged  in 
almost  constant  skirmish  along  the  line,  which  the  enemy 
was  continually  trying  to  break. 

The  slow  movement  of  the  environed  command  across 
the  succession  of  rolling  prairies  so  delayed  their  retreat 
that  it  was  three  days  before  they  reached  the  Cross 
Timbers.  Colonel  Kearny  had  decided  to  wait  there  for 
reinforcements,  before  attempting  with  his  crippled  and. 
depleted  force  the  dangerous  road  through  the  thick 
undergrowth,  which  would  afford  such  perfect  conceal 
ment  to  an  ambuscade. 

From  the  camp  the  first  evening  after  the  retreat  be 
gan,  under  shelter  of  the  closing  twilight,  Tisson  and 
Black  Beaver  had  crept  through  the  circle  of  surround 
ing  foes  with  dispatches  to  Forts  Washita  and  Towson. 
At  Beall's  suggestion  Colonel  Kearny  had  left  Bob 
Stearns,  Oscar,  and  the  captured  "VVitchita,  who,  in  ex 
change  for  his  liberty  and  a  large  promised  reward,  was 
to  guide  the  scout  to  a  Seminole  encampment  which  he 
knew  to  be  concealed  in  the  mountains,  where  he  said 
Coacoochee  and  Lo-loch-to-hoo-la  had  gone  the  day  be 
fore  the  attack. 

Bob  and  his  little  party  were  to  hide  in  the  rocky 
shelter  of  the  peak  where  the  Witchita  had  been  cap 
tured,  until  after  the  departure  of  the  command  and  its 
accompanying  foes.  Their  after-movements  were  to  be 
determined  by  their  success  in  finding  the  Seminole 
camp. 

At  the  second  night's  halt,  about  one  o'clock  in  the 
morning,  the  Indians  charged  in  force,  making  an  effort 
to  stampede  the  few  remaining  animals,  now  of  such 
vital  importance  in  the  transportation  of  the  wounded 
and  the  two  field-pieces.  Beall,  Burgwin,  and  Carson 
were  in  the  colonel's  tent,  where  Carson  was  receiving 
his  instructions,  he  having  volunteered  to  go  through  to 
Fort  Gibson  for  reinforcements,  when  the  din  of  the 
party  who  were  trying  to  frighten  the  corralled  horses, 


2l8  BABY  RUE. 


rang  through  the  camp.  Lieutenant  Anderson  of  the 
artillery,  who  had  charge  of  the  twelve-pounder  and  the 
little  howitzer,  was  on  watch.  He  had  kept  slow-matches 
burning  in  the  linstocks,  and  the  answer  to  the  war- 
whoop  was  the  harsh,  bitter  whistle  of  hurtling  grape- 
shot  that  went  tearing  through  the  dense  growth  of 
diminutive  shin-oak,  from  which  the  acorns  rattled  like 
pattering  hail  as  the  little  stems  were  mown  down  in 
clean  swaths  on  the  low,  rugged  range  of  sand-ridges 
across  the  creek  where  the  command  was  .encamped. 
The  flash  of  the  guns  brought  into  momentary  but  start 
ling  distinctness  the  moving  masses  on  the  ridges  and 
the  plain.  Again  the  twelve-pounder  raked  the  sand- 
ridges,  while  the  howitzer  sent  shell  after  shell  into  every 
group  revealed  by  the  flash  of  the  cannon.  By  the  time 
the  officers  were  out  the  camp  was  fully  aroused  ;  every 
soldier  alert  and  ready,  every  volunteer  waiting  to  sight 
the  enenry.  Not  a  moment  too  soon !  The  Indians 
charged  to  within  fifty  }-ards  of  the  cannon,  when  An 
derson  sent  its  murderous  contents  into  their  rushing 
advance,  causing  such  havoc  and  confusion  that  when 
the  little  howitzer  followed  suit  with  its  bursting  balls 
of  fire,  Mike  O'Dowd,  who  was  with  the  squad  serving 
the  guns,  called  out,  — 

"  Arrah,  but  it's  yourself  is  me  darlint,  me  little 
jewel  of  a  how-its-sure  !  Divil  a  need  of  a  fiddler  when 
3~ou  're  about  to  tache  thim  red  divils  the  dandy  stheps 
of  a  jig.  Kape  it  up,  mavourneen!  Let's  see  how 
they  '11  stand  another  slap  of  your  hot  little  fist !  " 

There  was  a  shout  of  laughter, —  a  new  prelude  to  the 
hoarse  note  of  the  cannon,  but  its  mirth  had  better  effect 
than  answering  cheer  of  battle.  The  startled  savages, 
thinking  it  the  presage  of  some  new,  some  terrible  wea 
pon  of  destruction,  fled  in  confusion.  Carson,  ready 
for  his  dangerous  venture,  was  standing  with  the  group 
of  officers  near  the  guns.  Again  Colonel  Kearny  re 
peated  his  instructions,  and  then,  turning  to  the  young 
artillerist :  — 

"Anderson,  shell  that  sink  in  the  ridge  there  to  the 
north,  where  the  growth  of  dwarf-oak  is  thickest.  Drive 


THE   CONFLICT.  2IQ 

the  Indians  out ;  then  cease  firing  until  Carson  has  had 
time  to  cross  the  sand-ridges.  After  that  he  must  take 
his  chance." 

His  parting  advice  to  Carson  was  :  — 

"Make  directly  for  the  Cross  Timbers.  The  Osage 
will  soon  strike  a  trail  that  will  lead  to  the  Washita. 
Keep  in  the  Timbers  until  you  reach  the  Canadian. 
Light  no  fires,  and  do  not  risk  a  shot  unless  it 's  an  ab 
solute  question  of  life.  Remember  you  will  be  in  the 
route  of  wandering  Semmoles  near  the  Canadian,  and  it 
is  just  possible  they  are  allies  of  the  hostiles.  Stop  at 
the  pass  at  the  head  of  Blue  River  and  send  the  Osage 
with  these  dispatches  to  Leszinksky.  Wait  twelve  hours 
for  his  return ;  an  Indian  runner  can  easily  make  the 
distance  in  that  time.  If  he  fails  to  return  you  will 
know  that  Leszinksky  is  surrounded.  The  more  need 
for  you  to  push  on  to  the  fort.  Be  prudent  and  wary, 
and  I  hope  you  will  get  back  safe.  Now  be  off  as  soon 
as  Anderson  sends  another  shot." 

A  general  farewell,  and  Beall  put  in  Carson's  hand  a 
pair  of  derringers,  saying,  "  Don't  fall  into  those  devils' 
hands  alive.  Keep  to  the  woods  when  3Tou  can,  and  do 
not  trust  any  Seminole  you  may  meet  on  the  way. 
Good-by!" 

Carson  and  the  Osage  were  over  the  creek  as  the  last 
shell  burst,  and  soon  gained  the  ridges,  which  they 
crossed  rapidly.  In  the  last  little  hollow  they  crawled 
through  the  dwarf-oak,  between  parties  of  Indians  they 
could  hear  talking  on  either  side,  and  came  out  in  a 
thicket  of  post-oak  and  black-jack  that  bordered  the 
heavy  timber  up  the  dividing  ridge  between  Wild  Horse 
and  Rush  Creeks. 

Mindful  of  Colonel  Kearny's  advice,  Carson  and  his 
guide  followed  the  divide  due  east  to  the  Cross  Timbers, 
where  the}-  soon  found  an  apparently  unfrequented  trail 
leading  directly  north.  By  noon  the}-  had  reached  Rush 
Creek.  After  an  hour's  rest  they  crossed  the  divide 
between  Rush  Creek  and  the  Washita,  which  for  some 
distance  ran  in  almost  parallel  lines.  Arrived-  at  the 
Washita,  they  had  proof  of  the  late  presence  of  passers 


22O  BABY  RUE. 


that  way,  in  a  freshly-cut  tree  that  bridged  the  deep, 
muddy  river,  where  its  miry  banks  were  highest.  The 
Osage  carefully  examined  the  footprints  upon  the 
bank,  and,  motioning  Carson  to  wait,  he  crossed  lightly 
over  the  felled  tree.  Not  a  leaf  or  broken  twig  escaped 
his  scrutin}'.  After  a  short  inspection  of  the  opposite 
bank  he  returned,  and  again  examined  the  footprints 
that  led  westward  along  the  south  bank  of  the  river. 
Carson  followed  until  they  came  to  a  broad  trail  coming 
up  the  bank,  where  horse-tracks  were  easity  seen. 

After  going  down  to  the  water,  the  Osage  returned  to 
where  Carson  waited,  and,  holding  up  both  hands, 
rapidly  opening  and  shutting  the  fingers  to  denote 
twent}',  said  "  Seminoles."  And  then,  with  the  index 
finger  upheld,  "  Pawnee  Big  Chief  bring  little  pale-face 
pappoose  this  away,"  pointing  to  the  tree-bridge  and 
then  up  the  trail  westward.  "  See  him  track  other  side. 
Pawnee  walk  over  tree  way."  Then  holding  out  five 
fingers,  "  Seminoles  walk  over.  Other  Seminoles  swim 
horse  here.  No  let  little  pappoose  get  wet." 

Carson  turned,  and  rapidly  followed  the  Indian,  who 
again  crossed  the  slight  bridge.  On  the  north  side  he 
pointed  to  the  print  of  the  child's  feet  going  to  a  droop 
ing  holly,  the  red  berries  of  which  had  evidently  been 
the  attraction.  The  broken  leaves  and  scattered  berries 
on  the  ground  were  also  carefully  lifted  by  the  Indian, 
and  when  Carson  asked,  "  Can  you  tell  when  they 
crossed  here?"  he  readily  answered,  holding  up  seven 
fingers,  "  So  many  day.  Horse  all  go  that  away," 
pointing  up  the  river.  "  Big  Chief  carry  little  pappoose 
this  away." 

"  How  do  you  know  it  was  the  Big  Chief  ?  " 

Without  a  word  the  Indian  pointed  to  the  unequal 
steps  of  long,  slender  moccasined  feet  in  the  sandy  soil 
of  the  shelving  ridge  above  the  north  bank,  and  then 
limped  to  show  Carson  the  gait  of  the  walker. 

Convinced  that  the  Big  Chief  had  passed  with  Rue, 
the  next  thing  of  importance  was  to  learn  at  what  time 
the}-  had  passed.  To  this  question  the  replies  of  the 
Indian  were  again  minute  and  exact,  although  given  in 


THE   CONFLICT.  221 

disjointed  words,  illustrated  b}*  such  slight  things  as 
broken  leaves,  bent  twigs,  and  trampled  blades  of  grass. 
It  was  made  evident  to  Carson  that  the  tree  had  been 
felled  and  the  party  had  crossed  seven  days  before, 
which  was  the  morning  after  the  first  heavy  frost  of  this 
late  season. 

They  followed  the  trail  in  the  opposite  direction  from 
that  which  the  Seminoles  had  come  until  dark,  and  then, 
sheltered  under  the  close  undergrowth,  awaited  the  com 
ing  morning  to  pursue  their  route,  which  was  in  the 
direction  they  were  to  take,  and  which  Carson  was 
anxious  to  follow  that  he  might  gain  all  possible  knowl 
edge  of  Rue  and  her  present  custodians.  The  next 
morning  they  pushed  on  rapidly  until  the}T  reached  a 
sheltered  little  woodland  glade  on  the  north  slope  of  the 
divide  of  the  Washita  and  the  Canadian,  where  they 
found  a  few  deserted  lodges,  which  had  evidently  been 
the  recent  habitation  of  a  small  party  of  Seminoles. 
There  had  been  women  here  with  the  child.  In  one  of 
the  lodges  they  found  a  torn  little  moccasin  that  Carson 
instantly  recognized  as  the  mate  of  the  one  Tisson  had 
picked  up  in  the  wood  near  Castalar's.  From  the  lodges 
the  path  led  to  the  Canadian,  and  a  less  experienced 
trailer  than  the  Osage  could  easiby  have  told  that  from 
there  the  women  had  gone  back  to  the  Seminole  villages 
north  of  the  river.  At  the  river  more  indubitable  proof 
was  found  in  a  canoe  pulled  out  on  the  sand,  and  the 
print  of  two  others  that  had  here  pushed  out  from  the 
bank.  Mindful  of  his  instructions,  Carson  pursued  his 
route  on  the  south  bank,  keeping  when  possible  the 
trailers'  path  near  the  sand-hills,  until  near  sunset  they 
reached  the  cottonwood  grove,  at  the  outlet  of  the  pass 
from  the  head  of  Blue  River.  Alter  an  hour's  rest  the 
Osage  started  through  the  pass  with  the  dispatches  to 
Leszinksky  and  a  hastily  written  note  from  Carson, 
telling  of  the  discoveries  at  the  crossing  of  the  Washita 
and  in  the  deserted  lodges. 

Carson  watched  the  Osage  climb  the^  ridge  until  he 
disappeared  in  the  entrance  to  the  pass.  Then  he 
entered  the  grove  at  the  southwest,  where  nine  days 


222  BABY  RUE. 


before  he  had  come  through  with  Beall,  Moore,  and 
Leszinksky.  Thinking  of  the  bold  dragoon,  of  his 
death,  of  the  comrade  over  in  the  little  camp  on  the 
prairie,  who  might  even  now  be  fighting  with  his  hand 
ful  of  men  as  heavy  odds  as  the  regiment  had  faced  in 
that  morning  battle  which  cost  so  dear,  and  in  the  re 
treat,  where  step  b}-  step  their  path  had  been  disputed 
by  a  countless  horde  of  stalwart  savages,  Carson  had 
unconscious!}*  left  the  trail  made  by  the  dragoons,  and 
turned  into  a  narrow  opening  that  wound  through  the 
trees  to  the  river. 

Here  he  was  startingly  brought  from  the  past  to  the 
present.  In  the  little  cove  before  described,  a  canoe 
was  fastened  to  the  root  of  a  tree  by  long  slender  stems 
of  willow,  so  hastily  twisted  together  that  the  leaves  had 
not  been  stripped  from  the  pliant  cord.  A  look  told 
Carson  that  the  boughs  were  freshly  broken.  Already 
learned  in  the  woodcraft  of  the  trailer,  he  saw  where 
light  steps  of  small  moccasined  feet  had  left  a  faint  im 
press  upon  the  moss  about  the  tree,  and  its  slowly 
uprising  tendrils  told  how  recent  had  been  the  pressure 
which  had  bent  them  downward.  Full}'  aroused,  he 
cautiously  and  noislessl}'  followed  the  footprints,  which 
led  to  the  left  of  the  opening  that  had  brought  them  to 
the  river.  A  few  minutes'  walk  and  he  stopped  behind 
the  thick  curtain  of  a  tangled  grape-vine  just  at  the 
edge  of  the  little  glade  where  Lo-loch-to-hoo-la  had  in 
terrupted  the  conference  of  Senaco  and  the  Seminole 
chief. 

Hearing  voices,  Carson  left  the  path  and  carefully 
crept  upon  a  fallen  tree  which  the  vine  had  caught  in 
its  meshes,  until,  in  the  close  boughs  of  the  tree  and  the 
drooping  runners  of  the  interlacing  creeper,  he  reached 
a  leafy  balcony  which  sheltered  him  from  sight,  while 
giving  him  a  point  of  observation  that  commanded  the 
glade.  Not  ten  paces  from  his  hiding-place,  seated 
upon  a  log,  was  an  Indian  woman,  whose  skeleton  figure, 
parchment-looking  skin  of  lustreless  brown,  and  fantas 
tic  dress  gave  a  weird,  witch-like  effect,  increased  by 
the  wandering  glance  of  small,  fiery  eyes,  and  the  con- 


THE  CONFLICT.  22$ 

stant  motion  of  long,  bony  fingers,  that  kept  twisting 
and  untwisting  over  and  through  each  other  the  }'el- 
lowish-white  hair  that  hung  in  scant,  thready  locks  to 
her  waist.  The  log  upon  which  she  was  seated  was  the 
broken  segment  of  a  trunk  that  had  been  cast  there, 
torn  and  splintered  by  some  fierce  storm.  The  bare  and 
matted  roots  were  twisted  into  a  curving  elbow,  upon 
which  the  woman  leaned,  resting  there  one  scrawny  arm 
as  she  still  threaded  the  thin  tresses  through  the  twitch 
ing  fingers  that  never  for  an  instant  ceased  their  tremu 
lous  movements. 

The  log  lay  at  an  angle  that  turned  slightly  outward 
from  Carson's  right,  thus  giving  only  a  suggestive 
profile  of  the  woman  seated  on  the  outer  side  of  the  log, 
whose  body,  from  the  waist  down,  was  entirely  con 
cealed  by  the  matted  curving  roots  next  to  Carson,  and 
by  the  log  itself. 

But  this  position  of  the  woman  brought  into  full  view 
of  the  hidden  watcher  a  figure  that  knelt  at  her  feet,  — 
a  3'oung  girl,  whose  wonderful  beauty  was  thrown  into 
striking  relief  by  the  startling  contrast  presented  by  her 
companion.  The  slender,  exquisitely  moulded  arms, 
bare  nearly  to  the  shoulders,  were  clasped  about  the 
woman.  The  small,  shapely  head  was  thrown  back,  its 
crowning  glory  of  dusk}^  tresses,  bound  with  a  fillet  of 
wampum  broidered  with  pearls  and  tiny,  delicatel}'  tinted 
shells,  had  taken  a  warm,  rich  color  from  the  reflection 
of  sunset  clouds  that  were  piled  above  the  western 
horizon  in  purple  and  flame-lit  rifts.  The  uplifted  oval 
face,  the  perfect  curves  of  the  slightly  aquiline  nose,  the 
bow-shaped  arc  of  the  scarlet  lips  through  which  flashed 
the  ivory  whiteness  of  the  small  teeth,  the  pure  outlines 
of  cheek  and  throat,  the  delicately  rounded  swell  of  the 
perfect  bust,  —  all  these,  added  to  the  glowing  richness 
of  complexion,  gave  the  effect  of  a  Psyche  in  fire-gilt. 
Psyche  or  Diana,  the  statuesque  picture  held  Carson 
spell-bound  through  the  charm  of  perfect  beauty.  Then, 
as  the  low  murmur  of  the  fresh  young  voice  captured 
another  sense,  the  charm  was  complete. 

Carson  had  loved  Margaret  as  a  boy  loves  the  woman 


224  BAB Y  RUE. 


who  brings  into  actual  breathing  existence  the  ideal  of  his 
imagination,  the  goddess  waiting  to  be  born,  the  armed 
and  panoplied  Minerva  who  is  perfected  in  the  central 
cell  of  every  masculine  brain.  He  had  so  loved  her  that 
she  could  never  lose  her  place  in  his  life.  She  had 
saved  him  from  the  grossness  of  passion.  Through  her 
and  because  of  her  he  had  a  profound  reverence  for  what 
is  highest  in  womanhood.  The  love  sacrificed  to  friend 
ship  had  failed  in  fruition  ;  it  had  not  failed  in  its  higher 
purpose,  —  in  the  supreme  good  that  comes  of  loss. 
Pain  and  sorrow  are  the  gateways  of  angel  visitors  ; 
tears  blind  us  to  their  presence,  vain  complaints  lose 
us  the  sound  of  voices  that  would  fain  console  and 
uplift. 

A  more  dangerous  archer  than  Comanche  or  Pawnee 
had  found  Carson  in  this  woodland  glade.  Through 
the  leaf)'  covert  of  the  wild  grape-vine  Love  had  pierced 
him  to  the  heart.  The  tumultuous  Hour  was  about  to 
strike  that  banishes  the  past  into  far-away  C3'cles,  that 
has  neither  knowledge  nor  care  for  the  future,  —  the 
Hour  that  lives  through  the  delighted  senses  in  a  magical 
present,  lost  even  to  the  heart-throbs  that  count  its 
golden  seconds,  —  the  Hour  that  was  born  in  Paradise  at 
Eve's  creation.  A  weeping  angel  caught  it  from  the 
hands  of  Time  the  Devourer,  and  dropped  it  through 
the  golden  bars,  so  that  every  child  of  the  banished 
pair  might  meet  the  lost  wanderer,  and  for  that  brief 
space  hear  counted  the  silvery  chimes  that  ring  through 
the  sixty  minutes  of  Heaven's  lost  Hour. 

The  Hour  of  Paradise  is  chased  by  the  serpent.  When 
powerless  to  beguile,  he  raises  his  threatening  crest  to 
terrify,  —  unseen  when  he  comes  to  tempt ;  visible  and 
repulsive  in  the  presence  of  the  pure. 

Through  the  musical  murmur  of  the  }'oung  girl's  liquid 
voice  Carson  heard  the  warning  rattle  of  the  deadly 
crotalus.  Pulling  aside  an  obstructing  vine,  he  saw,  in 
a  bed  of  yellow  and  brown  leaves  behind  the  log,  the 
coiled  folds  of  an  enormous  snake ;  its  yellowish-brown 
length  marked  with  dark  blotches  would  have  been  undis- 
tinguishable  among  the  leaves  but  for  the  upraised  scaly 


THE   CONFLICT.  22$ 

head  and  the  ear-piercing  rattle  that  for  the  second  time 
sounded  the  fatal  battle-cry. 

The  girl  sprang  to  her  feet,  catching  in  her  slender 
arms  the  resistant  woman.  With  a  supreme  effort  of 
her  lithe,  agile  force,  she  threw  her  burden  aside,  and 
turned  to  face  the  coming  danger.  As  the  springing 
reptile  straightened  his  muscular  folds,  there  was  a 
sharp  report,  and  he  lay  broken  and  wounded  upon 
the  log,  yet  still  trying  in  the  wrath  of  the  death-agony 
to  strike  his  envenomed  fangs  into  the  prey  almost 
within  reach.  Carson  had  hastily  followed  the  shot  of 
his  derringer.  Breaking  a  bough  as  he  sprang  from  the 
tree,  the  rattlesnake  was  soon  dispatched.  The  woman 
had  fallen  in  a  sitting  posture  upon  the  ground,  and, 
without  apparent  consciousness  of  what  was  passing, 
commenced  plucking  from  the  low  bushes  the  bright 
leaves,  vainly  trying  to  twist  them  in  the  threads  of  her 
flowing  hair.  The  girl  stood  motionless  as  a  statue,  the 
onty  evidence  of  life  the  soft,  glancing  light  of  the  dewy 
eyes  that  watched,  as  if  in  a  dream,  every  movement  of 
this  protector,  who  seemed  to  have  dropped  from  the 
sky  at  the  moment  of  need. 

The  colonel's  warning  against  firing  a  shot,  BealPs 
caution  not  to  trust  any  Seminole  he  might  meet  in  the 
way,  were  treasured  in  Carson's  memor}*,  as  words  preg 
nant  with  wisdom,  up  to  the  very  instant  there  was 
occasion  to  put  them  in  practice.  Alack  !  alack !  In 
the  logic  of  youth,  the  glance  of  a  soft,  dark  eye,  the 
sheen  of  a  maiden's  tresses,  are  more  potent  argument 
than  the  gathered  and  sententious  precepts  of  every 
graybeard  who  has 

*'  Dipped  his  nose  in  the  Gascon  wine  " 

since  its  first  vintage  ran  in  ruddy  drops  through   the 
twinkling  feet  of  laughing  girls. 

Hat  in  hand,  Carson  stood  smiling  and  blushing  be 
fore  the  maiden,  dumb  through  ignorance  of  a  language 
in  which  to  address  her ;  but  the  clear  light  of  the  blue 
eyes  flashed  to  the  very  depths  of  those  soft,  dark  orbs, 
and  came  glancing  back,  as  if  twin  stars  had  stooped 
15 


226  BABY  RUE. 


from  the  radiant  path  of  a  summei-'s  night  to  see  them 
selves  reflected  in  the  shadowy,  changeful  depths  of 
silent  pools. 

There  was  a  swaying,  wavy  motion  of  the  slender 
figure ;  long,  curling  lashes  drooped  over  the  tender 
eyes,  where  tears  slowly  gathered  and  fell.  The  shapely 
head  bent,  and  the  clasped  palms  gave  touching  ex 
pression  of  grateful  and  submissive  waiting.  Then 
soul  gathered  its  impalpable  elements  into  sound,  and  a 
sigh,  —  a  low,  tremulous,  faint  sigh.  —  stole  through 
the  scarlet  lips  to  the  t3Tmpanum  of  the  listener's  ear. 

I  do  not  know  what  you  would  have  done  in  Carson's 
place,. O  fastidious  reader;  but  I  know  what  I  should 
have  done ;  and,  because  he  was  a  manly  fellow,  it  is 
just  what  Carson  did.  Madame,  you  need  not  blush, 
neither  should  any  old,  smirking  sinner  grin.  I  was  not 
there  to  listen,  and  then  betra}7  the  sweet  secret  of 
3'outh.  Ah,  madame  !  ah,  monsieur !  not  for  them,  not 
for  them,  need  even  the  angels  fear !  Where  Purity 
and  Honesty  meet,  Love  may  come  ;  but  —  the  serpent 
lies  dead  at  their  feet. 


THE   CONFLICT.  22? 


CHAFfER  XXVIII. 

BOSOMED  in  yon  green  hills  alone,  — 
A  secret  nook  in  a  pleasant  land. 

EMERSON. 

TO  the  north  of  a  towering  peak  in  the  Witchita 
chain,  now  known  as  Mount  Scott,  is  one  of  the 
loveliest  valleys  of  that  romantic  and  picturesque  region. 
Caught  in  between  three  broken  mountains  that  encircle 
it  to  the  west,  north,  and  east,  and  a  spur  of  the  range 
that  curves  around  its  southern  border,  it  is  secure  from 
the  fierce  winds  of  the  plains  and  the  tempestuous 
"  northers"  that  sweep  the  western  prairies. 

The  swift  current  of  a  brawling  brook  enters  the  valley 
from  a  gorge  in  the  dip  between  the  summits  of  the  two 
highest  cones  to  the  northwest.  High  up  the  broken 
ridges  it  tumbles  and  foams  over  masses  of  loose  rock, 
then  rushes  wildty  down  a  continuous  succession  of 
rapids,  over  shelving  stretches  of  upland  meadows, 
until  it  reaches  a  little  lakelet  at  the  head  of  the  valley. 

Its  surface  dimples  and  breaks  into  tiny  waves  as  it 
swells  from  shore  to  shore,  sending  with  each  pulsation 
a  fresh  current  into  the  swift  stream  that  flows  from  it 
in  gentle  curves  a  distance  of  seven  miles  to  the  ex 
treme  southeastern  boundary  of  the  valley,  where  it 
finds  outlet  through  the  rocky  defile  of  a  narrow  canon, 
or  ravine,  rent  through  the  inclosing  spur.  Here  the 
perpendicular  walls,  three  hundred  feet  high,  form  a 
columnar  structure  of  porphyritic  trap,  occasionally 
studded  with  dwarf  cedars,  which  take  root,  and  draw 
their  meagre  sustenance  from  the  scanty  decomposition 


228  BABY  RUE. 


of  the  broken  flutings   that  traverse   the  face  of  the 
escarpment. 

On  the  northeast  corner  of  the  wall,  where  the  creek 
enters  the  canon,  the  columnar  trap  has  broken  off  at 
an  angle  which  exposes  to  view  veins  of  cellular  or 
spongy  quartz,  filled  with  liquid  naphtha,  having  a 
strong,  resinous  odour.  Above  the  rocky  plateau  made 
by  the  falling  debris,  a  hot  spring  issues  from  the  cleft 
angle.  The  steaming  water  has  washed  for  itself  a  basin, 
the  overflow  from  which  is  lost  in  the  pebbly  bank.  On 
the  south  of  the  creek,  commencing  three  miles  above, 
and  continuing  to  its  entrance  into  the  canon,  is  a 
broad  and  level  piece  of  bottom-land,  covered  with  a 
dense  growth  of  wild-rice  and  rich  grasses.  The  vege 
tation  is  less  rank  up  the  gentle  and  easy  slopes,  though 
the  gama-grass  extends  up  the  south  ascent  from  the 
valle}*  to  the  very  verge  of  the  acclivity,  where  broken, 
frowning  ridges  shut  out  all  view  save  the  towering 
peak  which  pierces  the  distant  and  blue  horizon. 

The  little  sj-lvan  landscape  thus  inclosed  has  a  charm 
ing  variety  of  scene,  —  mountain,  woodland,  glade,  and 
brook  bring  it  beauty.  From  the  wild-rice  field  up  to 
the  head  of  the  valley,  around  the  north  and  east  shore 
of  the  fairy  lakelet,  and  below  the  broad  plateau  of  the 
upland,  is  a  thick  wood  of  oak,  walnut,  overcup,  pecan, 
and  hackberry,  with  a  fringe  of  cottonwood  and  willow 
near  the  brook-side.  Here  and  there  a  shad}'  glade 
shelters  the  delicate  sensitive-plant ;  or  the  self- woven 
tangle  of  the  wild  passion-flower  curls  over  and  around 
some  gnarled  old  stump,  where,  beneath  the  mosses, 
the  sweetest  of  wood-violets  hide.  At  the  head  of  the 
lakelet  a  wide  and  extended  plateau,  a  hundred  feet 
above  the  level  of  the  water,  commands  a  view  of  the 
entire  valley  to  its  narrow  entrance  through  the  canon. 
Above  this,  in  gradual  steppes,  hang  the  upland  mea 
dows,  kept  fresh  and  green  through  the  dryest  summer 
by  the  spray  of  the  falling  brook.  Sheltered  and  circled 
to  the  west  and  north  by  the  lofty  ridge  that  binds,  in 
one  continuous  chain,  the  truncated  cones  of  the  three 
mountains,  even  the  uplands  show  patches  of  tender 


*  THE   CONFLICT.  229 

green,  long  after  autumn  has  browned  and  dried  the  tall 
grasses ;  while  the  heart  of  the  A'alle}-  gleams  like  an 
emerald,  when,  for  a  da}*,  winter  has  set  it  in  a  pearly 
circlet  of  snow. 

In  January  of  '44  the  Seminoles  of  Coacoochee's 
tribe  settled  twenty  families  of  their  negro  allies  in  this 
valley,  preparatory  to  a  final  removal  of  the  remainder. 
For  some  time  the  chief  had  determined  to  quit  the 
reservation  where  the  United  States  held  his  people 
(not  so  expressed  in  the  treatj-  it  forced  upon  them)  as 
tenants  at  will.  The  officious  care  and  supervisory  con 
trol  it  affected  were  as  intolerable  to  the  proud  spirit  of 
King  Philip's  son  as  the  chains  he  had  worn  in  San 
Augustine.  In  exile,  with  only  a  broken  portion  of  the 
warlike  band  that  had  for  so  many  3'ears  upheld  the 
falling  sovereignty  of  his  father,  he  determined  to  use 
the  exile's  last  privilege  and  choose  a  home.  In  this 
search  he  had  twice  visited  the  warlike  nations  of  the 
plains  and  the  sierras,  and  the  Mexican  Indians  of  the 
pueblos.  The  wild  savagery  of  the  free  nations  re 
pelled  him,  while  the  tame  submission  of  the  Pueblos 
was  only  a  shade  less  humiliating  than  the.  enforced 
dependence  of  his  people  upon  the  enemy  who  had 
banished  them  from  the  Everglades. 

With  the  prophetic  instinct  of  experienced  intelli 
gence,  and  the  foresight  of  the  great  warrior  who  reads 
in  even*  movement  the  intentions  of  his  foe,  the  chief 
was  sure  of  the  coming  conflict  between  the  United 
States  and  Mexico.  The  game  of  the  Everglades  was 
to  be  played  on  a  larger  scale  and  with  a  different  race. 
The  nation  that  had  pacificated  Florida  by  the  extermi 
nation  and  expulsion  of  her  native  tribes  was  now 
about  to  pacificate  Mexico  by  the  absorption  of  all  her 
territory  east  of  the  Rio  Grande,  and  such  mining 
property  as  might  be  useful  in  the  future  of  the  Great 
Republic.  The  taint  in  the  blood  had  come  through 
centuries.  The  robber  instinct  that  had  levied  tribute 
upon  the  Jew,  and  even  upon  the  weaker  Gentile, 
during  the  dark  ages,  broke  out  afresh  in  the  full  light 
of  the  nineteenth  century.  The  commercial  spirit  of 


230  BABY  RUE. 


the  time  intensified  this  instinct.  Looking  for  the 
friendless,  it  found  the  Indian.  Greed  of  private  gain 
upheld  the  national  greed  of  conquest.  The  trader 
cried  aloud  for  the  subjugation  of  the  savage,  the  exter 
mination  of  the  warriors,  confiscation  of  the  land,  and 
indemnities :  the  last  was  not  a  salve  to  conscience,  but 
a  chance  for  individual  gain. 

The  nation  heeded  the  voice  of  the  trader.  Honor, 
good  faith,  pledges,  truces,  and  treaties,  and  even  the 
flaming  rhetoric  of  the  "Declaration  of  Rights,"  were 
unhesitatingly  bartered  for  millions  of  broad  acres. 
To  quiet  a  few  brave,  honest  souls,  who  cried  "  Shame  ! " 
the  indemnities  were  voted  and  paid,  —  paid  through 
agents  who  cheated  the  savage  out  of  the  greater  part 
of  the  miserable  pittance  the  Government  doled  out. 
The  trader  got  the  remainder.  Why  should  he  not? 
His  cupidity  had  devised  indemnities. 

The  Anglo-Saxon  found  the  red  man  of  North  Am 
erica  hospitable,  honest,  brave,  generous,  and  sober :  if, 
after  three  centuries  of  Christian  contact  and  example, 
he  is  wily,  treacherous,  cruel,  a  thief  and  a  drunkard, 
whose  is  the  fault?  -To  prove  it  is  not  altogether 
his,  we  will  go  on  with  this  history. 

In  the  fall  of  '43,  a  hunting  party  of  Seminoles,  fol 
lowing  up  an  affluent  of  Cache  Creek  to  its  source, 
penetrated  the  close  undergrowth  of  a  densely-timbered 
bottom  to  where  the  clear  water  of  a  beautiful  cascade 
rushed  through  a  narrow  ravine,  high  up  the  moun 
tain  side,  over  a  ridge,  in  a  fall  of  some  two  hundred 
feet  upon  several  immense  granite  boulders.  These 
rocks  divided  the  current  into  two  separate  branches, 
that  wandered  apart  in  maz}-  turns  until  the  narrowed 
bottom-land  again  brought  them  together  five  miles 
below,  just  before  their  junction  with  the  Cache.  After 
long  and  tiresome  search,  the  hunters  found  a  point  of 
ascent  around  the  cascade,  winding  in  zigzag  lines  to 
the  mouth  of  the  canon,  with  an  entrance  through 
low,  broken  walls,  and  where  a  practicable  path  was 
found  beside  the  stream  the  source  of  which  they  traced 
to  the  lakelet  in  the  valley. 


THE   CONFLICT.  231 


These  first  discoverers  of  hidden  loveliness  found  the 
treasure  they  sought  in  captures  made  from  a  populous 
community  of  beavers,  that,  until  then,  had  built  dams 
at  their  own  good  pleasure,  living  honest,  laborious 
lives  in  their  submerged  dwellings,  far  from  the  wiles  of 
the  trapper. 

The  hunters'  report  and  a  visit  of  inspection  to  the 
valley  determined  Coacoochee  to  make  it  the  fastness 
of  his  people  and  their  persecuted  friends  until  the  set 
tlement  of  the  border  disputes  between  the  United 
States  and  Mexico  should  leave  the  way  open  to  the 
new  Florida  he  had  found,  shut  in  like  this  by  a  moun 
tain  chain,  beside  a  fresh  laguna  near  the  gulf  that 
washed  the  shores  of  his  lost  home.  The  secret  of  this 
valley  was  known  onry  to  his  people.  Imitating  the 
enemy,  who  had  taught  him  something  of  engineering 
in  the  battles  of  the  Big  Cypress  and  in  the  defences  of 
his  prison  at  San  Augustine,  with  the  assistance  of  the 
hunters  and  such  of  the  negroes  as  the}-  could  trust,  he 
cut  a  narrow  causeway,  that  gradually  descended  in  a 
curving  slope  around  and  down  the  side  of  the  south 
eastern  ridge,  from  the  mouth  of  the  canon,  above  the 
cascade,  for  a  distance  of  four  miles.  Then  it  emerged 
from  the  dense  undergrowth  at  the  base  of  the  chain, 
into  a  rocky  glen  at  the  head  of  a  small  branch,  and 
in  its  pebbly  bed  the  trail  followed  the  descending 
water  to  where  it  joined  two  larger  brooks.  The  united 
streams  ran  through  a  defile,  where  the  track  would  be 
lost  in  the  broad  trail  of  the  buffalo  that  here  crossed  to 
their  grazing  ground  south  of  the  Canadian. 

To  make  the  entrance  to  the  valley  more  secure,  the 
path  the  hunters  had  found  around  the  cascade  was  ob 
structed  by  loosening  huge  masses  of  rock,  the  fall  of 
which  left  a  bare  and  inaccessible  precipice.  This  com 
pleted  the  security  of  the  fastness  ;  for  although  the  as 
cent  within  the  valley  to  its  southern  boundary  was  gentle 
and  rolling,  it  ended  in  outhanging,  beetling  cliffs,  at  least 
five  hundred  feet  above  the  bottom-land  below  the  cas 
cade.  The  outer  sides  of  the  three  great  mountains  that 
completed  the  circular  boundary  were  bare  masses  of 


232  BABY  RUE. 

broken  granite,  thrown  loosely  together.  Rising  abruptly 
eight  hundred  feet  high  from  a  naked  prairie,  detached 
from  the  surrounding  peaks,  their  dangerous  ascent 
made  them  secure  from  venture  of  hunter  or  wandering 
traveller. 

Defended  in  winter  by  the  great  height  of  its  north 
ern  boundary,  cooled  in  summer  by  the  breezes  that 
swept  over  the  southern  ridge,  the  salubrious  and  mild 
climate  determined  Coacoochee  to  settle  in  the  valley  a 
portion  of  his  tribe  and  his  hunted  allies.  As  before 
stated,  in  January  of  '44,  there  were  already  there 
twenty  Seminole  and  negro  families,  with  substantial 
lodges  of  logs  erected  on  the  plateau  at  the  head  of  the 
lake.  Sheep,  cattle,  and  ponies  grazed  the  rich  pastur 
age  :  the  following  summer  the  enormous  yield  of  corn 
proved  the  fertility  of  the  soil.  The  natural  meadows, 
with  their  diversity  of  luxuriant  grasses,  would  of  them 
selves  have  subsisted  all  the  cattle  and  horses  belonging 
to  the  tribes. 

Pike  was  right  in  his  intuitive  judgment.  The  morn- 
1  ing  Major  Beall  and  Leszinksky  arrived  at  the  Seminole 
reservation  Coacoochee  was  preparing  for  the  removal 
of  his  family.  The  messenger  of  Senaco  was  then  in 
his  lodge.  The  Comanche  had  met  the  hunting-party  of 
Seminoles  on  the  Washita  ;  and  having  learned  from  the 
scouts  of  the  movement  westward  of  the  lodges,  — 
he  believed  on  their  way  to  Mexico,  where  it  was  known 
Coacoochee  intended  to  go,  —  he  determined  to  invite 
the  chief  to  a  council  with  the  allied  Comanches  and 
Kiowas,  and  if  possible  induce  the  renowned  warrior  of 
the  eastern  tribes  to  join  in  their  newly-made  league. 
To  this  end  the  interview  on  the  Canadian  that  Lo-loch- 
to-hoo-la  interrupted  had  been  arranged. 

There  was  much  to  tempt  the  great  Seminole  in  the 
offer  made  by  Senaco.  If  the  border  tribes  could  be 
united  under  a  fearless  and  experienced  leader,  armed 
with  the  weapons  of  civilization,  with  cannon  and  Mexi 
can  artillerists,  the  dream  of  Tecumseh  might  yet  be 
realized.  If  they  could  drive  the  Americans  back  to  the 
Mississippi,  and  make  that  their  line  of  defence,  the 


THE   CONFLICT.  233 

Seminoles  could  pay  themselves  for  their  lost  savannas 
out  of  the  reconquered  territory  that  had  once  been  the 
heritage  of  the  peoples  of  his  race.  Distrust  of  the 
Comanches,  —  those  Ishmaelites  of  the  plains,  —  and 
of  the  courage  and  constancy  of  the  Mexican  govern 
ment,  made  the  chief  hesitate.  He  had  known  some  of 
the  Mexican  leaders.  At  Santa  Fe  he  had  seen  the  gov 
ernor  of  New  Mexico,  —  the  blustering  and  cowardly 
Armijo,  —  and  had  heard  from  the  Indians  of  the  pue 
blos  the  story  of  his  infamies.  When  with  the  Apaches, 
he  had  met  Salezar,  the  lieutenant  of  Armijo,  who  was 
delivering  to  the  Indians  the  guns  Armijo  had  sold  them, 
though  he  knew  the}-  were  to  be  used  in  robbing  his  own 
countrymen.  Such  allies  could  not  be  trusted  if  the 
league  should  be  broken,  or  should  encounter  reverses. 

The  appearance  of  Lo-loch-to-hoo-la  was  at  the 
most  opportune  moment  for  the  furtherance  of  Se- 
naco's  designs.  Coacooche  knew  the  Pawnee  chief  to 
be  fearless,  courageous,  and  true.  If  the  border 
tribes  could  number  many  such  allies  in  their  confedera 
tion,  the  result  might  be  a  constant  and  united  resist 
ance  to  the  aggressors,  who  he  knew  would  not  easity 
relinquish  the  sovereignty  of  half  the  continent.  The 
wily  Comanche,  who  had  at  first  read  refusal  in  the 
manner  of  the  Seminole,  now  saw  the  chief's  hesitation, 
his  doubt.  From  that  moment  Lo-loch-to-hoo-la  was  an 
influence  to  be  counted,  an  ally  to  be  assisted.  Except 
for  that  recognition  b}r  the  river,  the  Pawnees  would 
have  been  surrendered,  and  the  child,  whom  Senaco 
supposed  he  could  at  any  time  retake,  would  have  been 
delivered  to  her  father.  That  meeting  in  the  cotton- 
wood  grove  changed  the  currents  of  many  lives. 

The  day  after  the  attack  upon  the  encampment,  about 
four  o'clock  in  the  afternoon,  Bob  Stearns  and  Oscar, 
accompanied  by  the  Witchita  Indian  who  had  been  cap 
tured  in  the  skirmish  on  the  cliffs,  and  who  claimed  to 
have  been  forced  to  guide  the  Pawnees  and  Comanches 
up  the  peak-side,  arrived  at  the  rocky  dell  at  the  head 
of  the  little  stream  through  which  the  Seminole  trail  led 
to  the  valley  of  the  three  mountains. 


234  BABY  RUE. 


For  some  time  Bob  and  the  Indian  had  been  talking 
earnestly  in  the  Comanche  dialect,  which  is  the  court  lan 
guage  of  the  southwestern  plains.  As  the}'  rested  at  the 
spring,  while  the  Indian  commenced  his  hound-like  search 
for  the  hidden  trail,  Oscar  asked,  — 

"  What  did  he  say,  Marse  Bob?  " 

"  He  says  the  path  round  the  ridge,  up  to  that  valley 
in  the  three  mountains  whar  the  Seminolies  is,  begins 
somewhar  in  the  undergrowth  'bout  here.  I  '11  look 
presently  myself,  when.  I  get  a  little  rested.  Now,  the 
pint  that  sticks  is,  I  don't  half  believe  in  that  Injin,  no 
how.  He  belongs  to  the  stealinest,  lyinest  tribe  to  be 
found  am-whar  between  old  Missoury  and  the  Rockies. 
The  red-faced  great-gran'son  of  Judas  'Scariot  is  jus'  as 
apt  to  sell  us  to  the  Seminolies  as  he  was  to  sell  them  to 
Colonel  Kearny.  I  've  knowed  a  heap  o'  Injins  ;  but  I 
never  knowed  any  but  the  meanest  that  'Id  turn  tail  on  the 
war-path,  and  go  back  on  thar  own  color.  Now,  if  Black 
Beaver  and  Tisson  had  n't  a-had  to  go  back  to  the  forts 
for  help,  I  'd  a-jus'  left  this  cummelion  cuss  tied  up  with 
Major  Beall  till  we  four  could  a-come  up  here  and  tuck 
our  chances  o'  finclin'  the  valley.  Now,  last  night,  down 
thar  by  the  Witchiter  village,  when  I  was  a-goin'  through 
the  Pawnee  camp,  if  you  had  n't  a-had  your  hand  on 
that  Injin's  slippery  hide  thar,  the  chances  is  the  Pawnees 
would  a-had  my  har,  and  the  turkey-buzzards  the  pick- 
in's  by  now." 

"  Dunno,  Marse  Bob,  what  he  mought  a  done,  but  I 
tuck  mighty  good  keer  to  do  jis'  what  you  tole  me,  sir. 
I  jes'  grab  hold  on  him  thar  in  the  bushes  an'  I  never 
let  go  a  minit  till  I  heerd  you  say  '  Oscar.'  I  reckon  I 
hel'  him  powerful  tight.  He  grunted  a  heap,  an'  talked 
sometimes  sort  o'  squeezed  out  like,  but  I  jes'  kep'  on, 
say  in',  '  Hole  still !  I  '11  let  you  go  soon  as  Marse  Bob 
says  so,  but  if  he  don't  come  'fore  mornin'  I  '11  squeeze 
you  worser  'an,  that.'  So  he  hel'  still,  cos  he  sort  o' 
understood  the  motion,  'cept  that  he  kep'  gruntin' 
'  Umph  !  umph  !  "  At  the  recollection,  the  childlike 
negro  nature  rolled  out  a  merry  laugh,  that  grew  up 
roarious  as  the  Indian  bounded  to  his  feet  and  looked 
at  him  in  stupid  amazement. 


THE   CONFLICT.  235 

Bob,  who  had  joined  in  with  a  quiet  chuckle,  hastily 
checked  himself,  and  said,  — 

"  If  that  Injin  knows  you  was  a-laughin'  at  him,  it 
ain't  a-goin'  to  be  healthy  for  us  about  here.  He'd  a- 
got  over  a  knock-down  sooner.  The  meaner  they  ar', 
the  more  revengin'er  they  ar*.  If  he  knows  —  and  I 
think  it 's  most  like  —  he  '11  find  some  nasty  si}'  wa}*  o' 
gittin'  even.  Now  you  see  I  would  n't  keer  a  damn 
about  his  temper  an  it  wah  n't  for  little  Miss  Rue  :  she 
must  be  up  here  with  the  Seminolies.  Lo-loch-to-hoo-la 
ain't  down  thar  in  the  Pawnee  camp,  and  the  Witchiter 
says  the  Big  Chief  rode  through  thar  village  with  Coa- 
coochee  and  the  baby  two  days  before  they  fit  us :  he 
says  they  are  mighty  good  friends.  So  be  and  Coa- 
coochee  is  up  here  in  the  mountains,  it 's  most  like  they 
would  be  together :  they  're  much  of  a  whatness  for 
pride  and  hatin'  pale-faces.  The}' 're  the  kind  as 
would  be  consortin'.  The  Seminolie  chief  never  did 
any  better  fightin'  over  thar  in  the  Big  Cypress  Swamps 
than  that  rush  of  Lo-loch-to-hoo-la  the  other  mornin' 
when  he  cut  in  through  our  camp  and  carried  off  them 
Comanche  chiefs.  You  see  it  was  a  pint  o'  honor  with 
him,  'cause  the}r  was  arrested  when  we  went  for  him 
and  did  n't  get  him,  all  along  of  our  leftenant's  squeam- 
ishness  'bout  not  foolin'  a  Injin.  It  ar'  a  strange  fact 
about  a  heathen  savage,  out  here  whar  thar  ain't  no 
civilization,  nor  penitensharies,  nor  churches,  but  so  be 
and  he 's  anything  at  all  of  a  warrior,,  he  '11  do  the 
hardest  kind  of  stand-up  fightin'  for  an}-body  as  has  got 
in  a  muss  on  his  account,  or  that  he's  friends  with  or 
kin  to.  Now  thar 's  Black  Beaver :  he  'd  jus'  be  cut 
up  and  fried  into  hash,  hide  and  taller,  for  Pike  or  me. 
All  them  old  Seminolie  warriors  was  like  that.  Why. 
every  last  one  o'  them  come  in  and  stuck  thar  heads  in 
the  noose,  so  to  speak,  when  we  had  Coacoochee  and 
threatened  to  hang  him.  The  dragoons  '11  fight  like 
hell  when  any  o'  thars  is  in  a  hole.  By  God!  You 
saw  how  they  was  cut  to  pieces  tr}1n'  to  save  Capt'n 
Moore."  Here  Bob  gulped  down  his  grief  in  half- 
smothered  oaths,  and  then,  taking  a  fresh  quid  of  to 
bacco,  continued,  — 


236  BAB Y  RUE. 


"  They  '11  fight  like  men  for  a  comrade,  but  they  don't 
do  no  more  'n  a  real  Injin  warrior  will.  I  saw  Waxe- 
hadjo  the  day  he  was  killed ;  he  stopped  and  fit  us  to 
let  his  squaw  arid  her  jroung  ones  get  safe  to  the  hum 
mocks,  across  a  big  log  in  the  lagoon.  When  some  of 
'  Ours'  who'd  got  grudges  shot  two  o'  the  pappooses, 
a  Injin  boy  —  he  could  n't  a-been  more  'u  sixteen  or 
tharabouts — runout  o'  the  hummocks  and  swum  toward 
the  log  whar  the  squaw  was  screechin'  over  the  dead 
young  uns.  He  got  the  livin'  babies  safe  to  the  thickets 
and  come  back  to  help  the  woman  with  the  others ;  he 
made  her  go  before  him,  so's  to  be  between  her  and 
our  fellers,  who'd  been  shootin'  steady  at  'em  all  the 
time.  Damn  poor  shootin',  not  to  hit  till  then  ;  sort  o' 
buck  ager  —  the}'  was  narvous,  so  nigh  the  game.  At 
last  the  boy  was  hit  and  fell  backward  into  the  water. 
Waxehadjo  had  swum  the  lagoon  as  the  woman  and  the 
boy  started  with  the  limp  little  bodies :  he  had  got  safe 
under  the  droopin'  moss  of  the  live-oaks.  The  minit 
the  boy  fell  he  was  in  agin,  and  with  two  or  three  desprit 
stretches  —  he  was  a  powerful  long-stroke  swimmer  — 
he  got  the  boy  and  was  carryin'  him  out  when  a  volley 
from  the  dragoons  fairly  riddled  'em  both.  We  got 
Waxehadjo's  body ;  it  had  nigh  onto  twenty  bullets 
through  it.  I  remember  Major  Beall  a-sayin',  '  What 
a  handsome  red  devil  he  was  ! '  Well,  you  see  that 's 
one  o'  the  things  Coacoochee  ain't  forgot :  his  sister  was 
Waxehadjo's  squaw.  I  saw  him  scowl  at  Major  Beall, 
who  stood  off  one  side  with  our  leftenant  when  Capt'n 
Moore  was  talkin'  to  the  chief." 

They  were  both  silent  a  moment  when  Oscar  began,  — 
"  Poor  Marse  Cap'n  !  poor  Marse  Cap'n  Mo' !  It 
don't  seem  nateral,  nohow,  to  think  o'  him  dead,  an' 
the  sun  a-shinin',  an'  the  'ar  a-blowin',  an'  the  birds  a- 
singin'  all  the  same.  He  was  so  much  alive  —  so  mighty 
much.  Such  a  dancin',  bright  look  in  his  63-68  when  a 
laugh  struck  'em  on  its  way  out!  So  big  and  strong 
and  good,  —  always  a-helpin'  somebody  !  He  'd  take  any- 
bod}"'s  troubles  up,  and  carry  'era  like  they  was  feathers 
• — that's  what  he  would  take  from  anybody;  but  he'd 


THE  CONFLICT.  237 

give  of  his  best.  Always  a-givin' !  An'  now  he 's  done 
give  his  life  fur  little  Miss  Rue  —  fur  little  Miss  Rue, 
an'  he  didn't  save  her  — -  an'  she  did  love  him  so  !  " 

The  faithful  fellow  hid  his  face  and  sobbed  aloud. 

"Hush,  Oscar!"  exclaimed  Bob,  springing  to  his 
feet.  u  S-t-o-p-it!  How  the  hell  am  I  to  stand  all  the 
strain  that's  a-comin'  and  you  goin'  on  like  a  orderly 
callin'  the  roll  o'  the  missin'  and  the  dead?  And  not  a 
canteen  o'  whiskey  to  be  got,  so  be  and  we  was  bit  by  a 
whole  den  o'  rattlers.  To  make  me  a-wantin'  liquor, 
and  me  swore  off!  Why  the  devil  do  3*ou  keep  me  a- 
rememberin'  every  misfortunit  thing  that  has  come  up  ? 
Ain't  we  goin'  right  now  for  the  little  capt'n?  And  as 
for  Capt'n  Moore"  —he  took  off  his  hat,  and  then, 
as  if  to  make  excuse  to  himself  for  uncovering, 
wiped  his  forehead  and  continued,  "  the  capt'n 's  gone 
to  a  better  world  'an  this,  and  he  fit  his  way  thar  like 
a  soldier ! " 

And  with  his  characteristic  distaste  for  thinking  of 
or  lingering  over  troubles,  Bob  walked  over  to  where 
the  Indian  was  carefully  lifting  the  low  boughs  of  a 
drooping  willow,  at  the  very  instant  a  rush  was  made 
from  a  dozen  leafy  coverts  ;  and  before  he  had  time  to 
grasp  the  pistols  in  his  belt,  he  was  a  captive.  Oscar, 
his  eyes  still  clouded  with  the  tears  Bob's  oaths  had 
checked,  sprang  to  his  feet  and  knocked  down  two  In 
dians  who  tried  to  seize  him,  then,  with  his  hastily 
drawn  knife  uplifted,  stood  like  some  dusky  Hercules 
whose  grand  pose  of  defiant  rage  brought  to  sight  the 
power  of  every  swelling  muscle.  At  the  instant  Bob 
was  captured  a  tomahawk  had  whirled  past  him  and 
cleaved  the  skull  of  the  Witchita.  "With  the  quick  in 
stinct  of  the  frontiersman,  Bob  realized  that  the  attack 
ing  party  did  not  intend  to  kill  him  ;  he  also  saw,  from 
the  waiting  attitude  of  the  warriors  who  fell  back  before 
Oscar's  threatening  knife,  that  they  were  held  at  bay, 
not  through  fear,  but  in  obedience  to  some  superior,  to 
whom  they  were  evidently  trusting  for  orders.  A  quick 
glance  back  to  the  willow  beneath  which  the  Witchita 
had  fallen,  and  he  saw  Coacoochee  standing  with  folded 


238  BABY  RUE. 


arms  beside  Loloch-to-koo-la,  who  touched  the  dead 
Indian  contemptuous!}-,  as  M'ith  an  impatient  movement 
he  caught  his  bloody  tomahawk  and  buried  it  to  the 
hilt  in  the  damp  moss,  saying  in  the  Comanche  dia 
lect,  — 

' '  The  dog  that  my  brother  found  hurt  and  starving 
in  the  forest  has  scented  his  trail  to  show  it  to  an  enemy. 
The  outlaw  from  his  tribe,  who  was  sheltered  by  the 
Seminoles,  has  sold  the  secret  of  the  valley  to  the  pale 
faces.  He  should  not  have  died  by  the  hand  of  a  war 
rior  :  he  should  have  gone  to  the  Great  Spirit  marked 
by  the  scourging  of  the  squaws." 

As  the  chief  stooped  to  regain  his  weapon,  Bob  again 
looked  at  Oscar.  What  he  saw  made  him  shout,  "  Don't, 
Oscar !  don't  rush  on  'em !  They  don't  want  to  kill  us  ; 
but  you  '11  make  'em  kill  us  both,  if  you  cut  one  on 
'em.  I  'm  a  capt-y-i>e  and  I  don't  want  to  be  brained 
jus'  now  when  we  've  got  a  chance  to  hear  news  o'  the 
little  capt'n.  They  ain't  done  no  hurt  to  us ;  they  've 
on'y  tomahawked  that  lyin'  redskin,  and,  from  what  I 
jus'  hearn  the  Big  Chief  say,  they  sarved  him  right. 
Hold  on  !  don't  you  see  it 's  the  Big  Chief  here  as  has 
got  the  baby?" 

The  negro  looked  at  Bob,  and  then  a  fierce  light  came 
into  his  eyes.  He  made  a  bounding,  panther-like  spring 
and  stood  face  to  face  with  Lo-loch-to-hoo-la,  as  he  said, 
in  the  thick  utterances  of  intensest  passion,  "You've 
got  my  marster's  little  child,  an'  if  you  don't  promise 
me  right  heah  to  give  her  up,  I  '11  drive  this  knife 
straight  through  you.  The  Lord  's  put  you  in  my  ban', 
an'  if  I  die  for  it,  I  '11  do  it." 

"Oscar!  Oscar!"  again  shouted  Bob.  "You  ar' 
throwin'  away  every  chance  to  get  the  bab}-.  You  '11 
kill  the  Big  Chief  and  we  '11  both  be  tomahawked.  Don't 
you  know  he's  her  best  friend?  You're  jus'  playing 
hell  with  what  the  Lord  's  put  into  your  hand.  You 
cussed  jackass,  you  're  foolin'  away  her  life  and  ourn. 
Why,  he  kept  them  murderin'  Pawnees  from  finishiu' 
her." 

Another  voice  —  a  voice  with  a  soft  vibrating  ring, 


THE   CONFLICT.  239 

speaking  in  that  sweet  southern  English  that  lends  to  its 
flexible  force  the  charm  of  Latin  vowels  —  was  heard: 
"  Are  you  here  in  search  of  your  master's  child?" 

Oscar  turned  at  the  sound ;  his  hand  dropped  to  his 
side  and  his  eyes  lost  their  fierce  fire  as  he  met  the  mag 
netic  look  in  the  soft,  dark  eyes  of  Coacoochee. 


PART  VII. 

COACOOCHEE. 


LORD  of  himself,  though  not  of  lands ; 
And  having  nothing,  yet  hath  all. 

SIR  HENRY  WOTTON. 


16 


PART  VII. 

COACOOCHEE. 

•> 

CHAPTER  XXIX. 

I  AM  Sir  Oracle, 
And  when  I  ope  my  lips,  let  no  dog  hark. 

SHAKSPEARE. 

AT  the  moment  the  Seminole  Chief  spoke  to  Oscar, 
Bob,  finding  himself  released  by  his  captors,  laid 
his  hand  lightly  on  the  negro's  shoulder,  who  stood 
dumb  and  motionless,  held  by  a  power  he  had  not  skill 
to  analyze  or  understand.  The  clear  intelligence  that 
dominated  him  with  its  magnetic  force,  looked  into  and 
through  the  passionate,  childlike  nature ;  and  finding 
there  rage  and  hate,  held,  as  in  a  leash,  those  hounds 
of  the  soul,  controlled,  if  not  subdued,  by  the  power  of 
the  tamer.  With  a  quick  glance,  that  included  Bob  in 
the  conversation,  the  chief,  without  waiting  Oscar's 
answer,  continued:  "My  }Toung  men  have  constantly 
watched  the  two  warriors  that  came  with  the  Witchita 
dog  to  the  mountains.  Otulke,"  and  he  pointed  to  the 
young  Seminole  who  had  been  with  him  in  the  glade 
when  Lo-loch-to-hoo-la  interrupted  their  conference  with 
Senaco,  "the  brother  of  Coacoochee,  followed  the 
brave  white  warrior  through  the  camp  of  the  Pawnees, 
where  he  risked  death  at  every  step  in  his  search  for  the 
child  of  his  chief.  Coacoochee,  himself,  waited  in  the 
darkness  of  the  forest,  near  the  faithful  black  man  who 
held  the  Witchita  hound  by  the  throat  while  his  friend 
was  in  the  path  of  danger.  The  heart  of  the  black  man 
is  loyal  and  brave.  It  is  no  idle  word,  no  boast  of  the 


244  BABY  RUE. 


braggart  who  rests  by  the  lodge-fire,  when  he  says  he  is 
ready  to  give  his  life  for  the  child  of  his  master." 

The  voice  ceased,  and  there  was  a  look  of  waiting 
for  question  in  the  face  of  the  chief.  Bob  cleared  his 
throat  nervously,  trying  to  find  something  to  say  ;  but 
the  ordinarily  loquacious  spokesman  was  scarcely  up  to 
the  occasion.  The  single-thoughted  and  simple-hearted 
negro  had  less  consciousness  of  his  own  personality. 
His  one  idea  was  the  child,  his  one  feeling  unswerving 
devotion  to  the  search.  He  had  looked  into  the  eyes  of 
Coacoochee,  and  to  the  perfect  fearlessness  of  self- 
abnegation  was  the  added  quality  of  appealing  trust,  as 
he  said,  — 

"  I  want  to  find  little  Miss  Rue.     Whar  is  she,  sir?" 

The  chief  looked  at  Lo-loch-to-hoo-la,  who  answered 
with  a  glance  of  assent  to  the  silent  question.  Again 
Coacoochee  addressed  the  negro  :  — 

"  She  is  with  the  wife  of  Coacoochee,  at  the  Seminole 
camp  in  the  mountains." 

"  I  want  to  go  thar,  sir.  Thar 's  whar  we  was  a-goin' 
when  you  cut  in  on  us  heah.  The  Witchita  said  she 
was  with  you  all ;  an'  when  we  did  n't  fine  that  murderin' 
devel  thar,  last  night "  —  and  he  raised  his  clinched 
fist  to  designate  Lo-loch-to-hoo-la  —  "down  with  the 
Pawnees,  we  just  knowed  the  Injun  was  right,  and  she 
was  up  thar.  I  must  see  her,  sir.  Thar  ain't  no  time 
to  lose.  'Pears  as  if  I  could  hear  Miss  Marg'ret  — 
that's  her  mother,  sir  —  callin' rne  over  the  hills  an' 
rivers,  to  bring  her  chile  befoe  the  grief  of  it  kills  her. 
An'  my  marster — that 's  her  father,  sir  —  he  's  thar  the 
other  side  o'  the  Washter  a-waitin'  fur  news  of  her,  — 
waiting  an'  he  knows  Oscar 's  started  to  fine  her.  The 
Lord  's  led  me ;  an'  now  I  've  foun'  the  way,  nothin' 
couldn't  hole  me  back.  I  must  start  this  minute  to 
your  house." 

' '  The  lodge  of  Coacoochee  is  open  to  the  black  war 
rior  with  the  true  heart.  If  he  will  stay  with  the  Semi- 
nolcs  he  will  find  freedom.  He  can  walk  through  the 
forest  and  under  the  sunlight  a  man.  The  warriors  of 
his  race  were  the  allies  of  the  Seminoles,  in  the  hum- 


COACOOCHEE.  245 


mocks  and  the  Everglades.  When  the  great  chief  of  the 
Long-knives  sent  his  warriors  with  the  Creek  hunters  to 
catch  slaves,  when  the  women  and  children  were  torn 
from  their  villages  in  the  territory  of  King  Philip,  where 
for  generations  they  had  lived  peacefully  under  the 
shields  of  the  Seminoles  and  Mickasuckies,  then  Coa- 
coochee  swore  by  the  Great  Spirit  that  the  son  of  King 
Philip  would  never  bury  the  hatchet  until  the  slave- 
hunters  were  driven  from  his  land,  and  his  black  friends 
could  rest  in  peace  under  the  shade  of  the  live-oaks  that 
bent  over  their  lodges.  The  grass  of  the  Everglades 
that  was  reddened  with  the  blood  of  the  Seminoles,  the 
leaves  of  the  hummock  that  have  concealed  the  war 
riors  of  Coacoochee,  the  cypress  of  the  swamps  that 
have  heard  the  bay  of  the  bloodhounds  when  the  white 
man  followed  the  trail  of  the  escaping  slave,  can  tell 
how  that  oath  was  kept.  When  amnesty  was  offered  to 
their  allies,  the  little  remnant  of  the  people  of  King 
Philip  left  alive  after  the  seven  years'  war  surrendered  ; 
when  the  slave-hunters  had  been  turned  from  the  path 
of  the  black  man,  the  Florida  Indians  were  willing  to 
make  peace.  The  great  chief  of  the  Cherokees  was 
sent  to  pledge  the  faith  of  the  government  of  the  white 
man  to  the  perpetual  protection  of  the  Seminoles  and 
their  allies,  if  they  would  remove  to  the  lands  west  of 
the  mighty  river.  The  Cherokee  chief  was  truthful  and 
honest.  When  the  Seminoles  were  homeless,  he  sheltered 
them  ;  when  their  allies  were  claimed  by  the  slave- 
hunters,  he  raised  his  voice  and  called  to  the  war-chiefs 
at  Fort  Gibson  against  the  lying  officials  of  a  perjured 
government.  To-day  Coacoochee  is  looking  toward  the 
war-path  ;  he  is  calling  his  tried  warriors  and  young 
braves  to  the  mountains.  The  pledge  made  through 
the  great  Cherokee  is  broken.  There  are  slave-hunters 
in  the  Creek  countay,  and  the  sleep  of  Coacoochee  has 
been  disturbed  by  the  cries,  of  captured  women  and 
children.  If  my  brother  will  come  to  the  fastness  in 
the  mountains,  to  the  lodges  of  the  people  of  his  race, 
Coacoochee  will  break  his  chains,  and  he  shall  dwell 
near  the  child  he  seeks." 


246  BABY  RUE. 


The  intonation  of  these  sentences  was  a  master-piece 
of  persuasive  eloquence.  The  commanding,  kingly 
bearing,  the  earnest,  protecting  manner,  carried  every 
word  straight  to  the  listener's  heart.  Oscar  had  heard 
the  story  of  the  Everglades,  told  by  brave  men  who 
had  fought  for  a  cause  they  did  not  scruple  to  denounce, 
in  the  freedom  of  talk  where  comrades  were  gathered. 
His  master  had  not  said  much.  King  Stan  was  never 
a  denunciator}'  talker ;  but,  from  his  interest  as  a  lis 
tener,  from  the  kindling  of  the  clear  eyes  and  the  ex 
pressive  quiver  of  the  mobile  mouth,  Oscar  could  easily 
translate  his  feeling.  It  was  a  face  he  had  studied 
since  they  were  children  together :  he  had  watched  its 
changes  to  anticipate  command,  he  had  learned  it 
well.  It  was  a  mixed  knowledge,  —  some  such  thing  as 
might  result  if  the  sagacity  of  the  Newfoundland  were 
added  to  the  deep  affectionateness  of  an  unlettered  clans 
man,  whose  reasoning  follows,  but  never  precedes, -the 
decisions  of  his  chief.  Oscar  also  knew  that  slave- 
traders  were  in  the  territory,  come  for  the  black  Indians 
(as  they  were  called),  who,  though  of  slave  extraction, 
had  been  free  for  three  or  four  generations.  The  opin 
ions  of  the  officers  in  the  garrison  had  not  been  hid 
under  a  bushel.  He  had  heard  Captain  Ben's  deep 
oaths  ;  and  the  doctor's  quiet  sarcasm  had  not  entirely 
failed  in  getting  lodgment  in  his  understanding.  He 
knew  that  wrongs  were  being  permitted,  if  not  commit 
ted,  b}*  the  Government.  Moreover,  the  clannishness  of 
color  in  a  measure  identified  him  with  these  exiles.  He 
had  seen  the  few  in  the  fort,  who  had  been  rescued  by 
the  military  from  the  traders,  who  were  waiting  the 
decision  of  the  Supreme  Court.  He  had  felt  a  thrill  of 
fierce  delight  in  their  stubborn  resistance  to  captivity, 
and  in  their  wild,  untamed  defiance  of  the  curious  crowd 
of  camp-followers  who  clustered  about  their  quarters. 

Brought  up  under  other  training  than  that  of  Mount 
Hope,  or  by  any  other  master  than  King  Stan,  Oscar 
would  have  been  the  most  intractable  of  slaves,  the 
most  resolute  of  revolutionists.  His  sense  of  justice, 
and  the  unshrinking  self-devotion  of  his  character,  would 


COACOOCHEE.  247 


have  made  him  the  stubborn  defender  of  the  helpless  and 
the  oppressed  of  his  people.  As  it  was,  the  insidious 
appeal  of  Coacoochee,  for  the  moment,  carried  him  out 
of  his  present  self,  into  that  other  self  which  lies  buried 
under  the  "  what  might  have  been,"  —  an  effect  not  un 
common  to  oratory  ;  else  how  could  we  explain  the  phe 
nomena  of  the  repeated  relapses  of  converts  ? 

B}T  this  time  Bob  had  found  his  voice,  and  was  read}* 
to  take  the  burden  of  conversation  upon  himself ;  more 
over,  he  did  not  altogether  relish  the  prominence  the 
Seminole  chief  seemed  disposed  to  give  Oscar.  For  an 
Indian  and  a  negro  to  prolong  a  conversation  that  ut 
terly  ignored  the  only  white  man  present  was  a  state  of 
affairs  he  was  neither  willing  to  consider  or  accept.  De 
termined  to  bring  Oscar  to  a  sense  of  his  inferiority,  and 
Coacoochee  to  a  realization  of  the  supremacy  of  the 
Caucasian,  he  commenced:  "I  don't  think,  chief, 
this  black  boy  can  get  the  rights  of  all  that  'bout  them 
Florida  allies  o'  3-0111-  'n  in  his  head.  Not  that  I  ain't 
free  to  say  thar's  been  a  darned  sight  o'  rascality  in 
the  doin's  of  them  nigger-traders,  fust  and  last.  The}*  've 
started  the  same  game  here,  in  the  Creek  countoy,  they 
tried  down  thar  at  New  Orl-ee-ns ;  whar  they  played 
hard  to  disgruntle  old  General  Gaines  into  givin'  up 
them  black  prisoners  o'  war  that  was  in  the  barrack  at 
Fort  Pike.  But  they  did  n't  know  the  kind  o'  man  the 
old  general  was.  He  had  fit  them  black  Injuns  when 
the}-  was  with  you,  in  that  fight  on  the  Withlacooche. 
He  knowed  they  was  real  warriors ;  and  when  he  got 
the  drop  on  'em  he  war  n't  the  man  to  give  'em  up  to 
such  skunks  as  took  to  hunten'  'em  after  they  'd  gi'n  in 
and  surrendered.  jMore  'an  that,  the  old  general  was 
a  man  with  a  heart  in  him  ;  he  'd  seen  them  prisoners 
when  the  chiefs  and  warriors  o'  thar  tribes  was  brought 
from  Tampa  Bay,  —  them  on  'em  who  had  come  in  after 
that  big  fight  in  the  Wahoo  Swamp,  whar  our  folks  got 
thar  squaws  and  little  ones,  and  the  others  who  come 
with  }-ou  the  time  you  brung  Louis  Pacheco  to  send  him 
out  here.  Well,  the  general  seen  'em  meet,  —  the  old 
men  who  'd  fit  and  starved  in  the  swamps  and  hum- 


248  BABY  RUE. 


mocks,  a-cryin'  fur  happy,  with  thar  squaws  and  young 
uns  ;  and  the  young  braves  laughin'  like  gals,  with  thar 
mothers  and  sisters  :  he  seen  it,  and  he  felt  it  like  a 
brave  man  would :  an'  he  'd  a-fought  like  they  did  fur 
thar  homes  in  the  hummock  sooner  'an  give  'em  to  the 
nigger- traders  who  had  come  fur  'em  with  a  order  from 
them  thievin'  Creeks  in  Georgia.  I  was  thar  at  Fort 
Pike,  and  I  seen  the  commandin'  officers  turn  back  that 
trader  Collins,  and  the  New  Orleens  sheriff  and  his  posse, 
with  the  biggest  fleas  in  thar  ears,  when  they  axed  him 
to  deliver  up  the  prisoners ;  and  I  was  one  o'  the  men 
who  come  on  to  Fort  Gibson  with  Leftenant  Rej-nolds, 
when  he  brought  the  emmy -grants  up  the  Mississippi, 
whar  Collins  tried  his  law-steal  ag'in  at  Vicksburg  ;  and 
the  leftenant  would  n't  give  up  his  prisoners  ;  and  at 
Little  Rock  they  called  on  the  State  to  get  'em,  when 
Governor  Roane  said  p'int-blank  he  '  was  n't  in  the  nig- 
ger-catchin'  business,  and  nuther  was  the  State  o'  Ar- 
kansaw.'  Ino  and  Louis  Pacheco  come  through  with 
us  ;  an'  so  be  and  they  're  any  whar  about  here,  I  'ud  like 
to  see  'em. 

"  Now  Oscar  don't  know  nuthin'  'bout  them  times,  and 
he  ain't  no  right  notion  o'  the  difference  in  thar  fix  an' 
his'n.  He 's  always  belonged  to  his  master,  and  he  's  no 
more  a-hankerin'  to  leave  him  than  Louis  Pacheco  would 
be  to  leave  the  Seminolies.  But  that 's  nuther  here  nor 
thar.  You  know  what  we  come  to  the  mountains  fur, 
and  }'ou  seen  who  we  come  with.  I  had  n't  much  'pinion 
o'  that  Witchiter  myself;  and  I'm  free  to  say,  1  think 
the  Big  Chief  gi'n  him  just  what  he  'arned." 

With  a  deferential  nod  to  the  silent  Pawnee,  Bob 
closed  his  politic  oration.  Its  most  evident  effect  was 
upon  Oscar,  who  was  thus  recalled  from  any  outside 
question  to  the  immediate  business  in  hand.  His  vio 
lent  outburst  of  temper  at  sight  of  the  Indian  who  had 
brought  such  distress  upon  the  family  to  whom  he  was 
devoted  had  been  checked  b}'  Coacoochee's  look.  The 
address  of  the  chief  had  changed  his  mood,  and  for  the 
time  nearly  mastered  him.  But  Bob's  strategic  seizure 
of  the  situation  had  nullified  the  chief's  influence ;  and 


COACOOCHEE.  249 


Oscar  was  now  more  calmly,  but  just  as  persistently, 
determined  to  continue  his  search  for  the  stolen  child ; 
to  do  battle  with  any,  or  all,  who  resisted  or  delayed 
her  restoration  to  her  home. 

Coacoochee  had  watched  the  changes  of  the  negro's 
countenance,  and  knew  that  all  chance  of  gaining  an 
other  adherent  was  lost. 

The  problem  left  for  his  solution  was,  how  to  dispose 
of  the  prisoners,  who  were  likely  to  be  an  embarrass 
ment  to  their  captors,  who  were  not  }"et  declared 
enemies  of  the  Americans.  To  release  them  without 
the  child  would  be  to  invite  attack.  To  retain  them 
might  necessitate  their  prolonged  captivity ;  beside, 
they  would  be  difficult  prisoners  to  guard.  The  Semi- 
nole  chief  could,  and  did,  judge  them  fairly.  He  under 
stood  that  they  were  men  of  more  than  ordinary  courage 
and  daring,  unswerving  in  pin-pose,  desperatehy  deter 
mined  ;  the  negro  blindly  devoted  and  reckless  of  con 
sequence,  the  white  man  coolly  indifferent  to  danger, 
yet  ready  to  seize  every  advantage  of  defence  ;  as  wary 
as  he  was  resolute. 

For  a  moment  the  Seminole  almost  resolved  to  let 
them  pa}'  the  full  price  of  their  rash  venture,  but  the 
trustful  look  in  the  negro's  face  disarmed  him.  Bob,  if 
alone,  would  have  been  in  mortal  danger :  his  diplo 
matic  oration  would  have  been  his  death-warrant ;  but 
Bob,  as  a  sort  of  moral  twin  of  the  confiding  black  man, 
was  entitled  to  the  chiefs  consideration.  So  Coacoo 
chee  was,  in  a  measure,  forced  to  his  final  decision,  — • 
to  separate  the  men  on  some  plausible  pretext,  and  trust 
to  a  temporizing  policy  until  he  should  be  ready  to 
leave  the  country  with  his  people.  Remembering  Bob's 
claim  of  acquaintanceship,  he  called,  — 

"  Louis!" 

From  beneath  the  willows  emerged  a  medium-sized, 
intelligent-looking  dark  mulatto.  He  had  evidently 
heard  the  conversation,  for.  with  a  quick  glance  at  the 
chief,  he  held  out  his  hand  to  Bob,  speaking  English 
with  a  slight  foreign  accent. 

"1  rhemember  you  verhie  well,  Mr.  Stearns.     You 


250  BAB  Y  RUE. 


werhe  one  of  our  guard.  I  have  not  forgotten  how  kind 
and  obliging  you  werhe.  I  do  not  think  }-ou  ^verhe  at 
Fort  Gibson,  when  I  was  therhe  two  years  ago." 

"  No,"  said  Bob,  shaking  hands  with  some  embar 
rassment,  for  he  saw  the  mulatto  knew  of  his  desertion. 
"I  was  out  on  the  plains  then  with  Pike.  You  must 
remember  Pike  ?  " 

"  Oh  yes  ;  I  rhemember  I  could  stand  under  his  arm. 
Wherhe  is  he  now  ?  " 

"  Over  thar,  the  other  side  o'  the  Washeter  with  our 
reserves." 

And  Bob  thought  he  had  made  a  good  point  for  his 
own  side  in  intimating  they  had  force  enough  to  detach 
a  reserve.  Coacoochee  smiled,  and  then,  leaving  Bob 
talking  to  his  newly-found  acquaintance,  with  Oscar  as 
listener,  the  two  chiefs  had  a  short  but  decisive  confer 
ence.  When  it  ended,  Coacoochee  returned  to  Louis 
and  the  men,  abruptly  saying  to  Oscar,  — 

"  If  you  will  promise  to  wait  in  the  mountain  with  the 
little  child,  without  attempting  to  escape  until  I  can 
send  a  messenger  to  3'our  master,  }-ou  can  go  at  "once  to 
the  lodge  of  Coacoochee." 

"  Yes,  sir,  I  promise.  I  'm  might}'  willin'  to  wait  with 
Miss  Rue,  if  Marse  Stan  knows  I's  with  her." 

Bob  looked  at  Oscar  warning^,  but  before  he  could 
attract  the  negro's  attention,  Coacoochee  continued. — 

"  You  give  me  your  word  as  an  honest  man  that  you 
will  be  quiet  and  peaceable,  —  that  you  will  wait  with 
out  an}*  effort  to  escape  until  I  release  you  from  your 
promise  ?  " 

Again  Bob's  nervous  cough  and  clearing  of  his  throat 
failed  to  catch  the  attention  of  the  negro  who  was  earn 
estly  regarding  the  chief,  as  he  answered,  — 

"  Yes,  sir.  You  can  be  sho'  o'  Oscar.  If  the  Lord 
lets  me  see  Miss  Rue,  an'  I  can  stay  with  her  while 
3*ou  're  a  waitin'  to  hear  from  her  father,  it  '11  be  easy  fur 
me  to  be  peaceable  an'  patient  till  you  tells  me  I 's  free 
to  go  an'  to  take  the  chile ;  fur  nohow  I  could  n't  go 
back  without  her.  So  I  promise  }'ou  I  won't  try  to  get 
away  with  her.  I  '11  wait.  I  know  I  can  truss  you,  sir; 
an'  I  won't  no  way  try  to  deceive  you." 


COACOOCHEE.  2$  I 


The  intonation  was  so  true  and  honest  that  the  chief 
was  sure  the  negro  would  keep  faith.  Much  to  his  dis 
gust,  after  Oscar's  fall  into  the  trap  set,  Bob  was  equalty 
sure.  Henceforth  he  must  count  Oscar  out  in  his  cal 
culation  of  chances.  He  had  nothing  but  the  almost 
unerring  instinct  of  the  frontiersman  and  his  own  pluck 
to  rely  upon,  in  the  contest  he  saw  was  coming  with  the 
Seminole  chief,  who  was  saying  to  Oscar,  — 

'•  You  can  go  now,  but  you  must  let  Louis  blindfold 
you.  The  pass  into  the  mountains  is  a  secret  we  can 
not  give  to  any  but  our  own  people." 

t;  Yes,  sir.  It'll  be  slower  work  —  I  can't  walk  so 
fast.  But  I  ain't  afeard  —  I  'm  ready  fur  the  blindfold, 
sir." 

"  You  will  not  walk.  The  horses  are  waiting  there 
in  the  wood.  You  will  be  perfectly  safe." 

"  Yes,  sir,  I  know  it.  I  truss  you ;  an'  maybe  some 
time  Oscar  '11  get  a  chance  to  show  you  how  he 's  willin' 
to  thank  you  fur  helpin'  him  to  get  to  his  marsters  chile 
in  her  trouble." 

Then  turning  to  Bob,  taking  for  granted  he  was  the 
messenger  to  his  master,  he  added,  — 

"  Good-by,  Marse  Bob.  Tell  Marse  Stan  the  baby's 
safe  now.  She  '11  have  one  of  her  own  folks  with  her, 
an'  I  '11  never  leave  off  watchin'  of  her  till  she 's  in  her 
mother's  arms.  You  mus'  go  on  to  her  mother,  Marse 
Bob,  an'  say  Miss  Rue 's  got  me  with  her ;  then  Miss 
Marg'ret  will  feel  she  's  safe.  Good-by." 

And  in  his  haste  he  did  not  see  Bob's  look  of  warn 
ing.  He  passed  with  the  mulatto  into  the  copse  of  wil 
lows,  and  Bob  was  facing  the  chief,  who  had  not  lost 
one  of  his  unlucky  signals  to  Oscar. 


252  BABY  RUE. 


CHAPTER  XXX. 

OUR  acts  our  angels  are,  or  good  or  ill. 

JOHN  FLETCHER. 

THE  sound  of  Carson's  derringer  brought  other 
travellers  to  the  glade. 

Doctor  Randall,  who  was  the  advance  scout  of  the 
first  detachment,  according  to  Carson's  view  of  the  case, 
could  not  have  arrived  at  a  more  inopportune  moment. 

The  young  officer  had  one  arm  around  the  Indian 
maiden,  and  was  pressing  her  shapely  little  hand  to  his 
lips,  as  he  caught  sight  of  Randall's  smiling  visage. 
The  deep  color  that  rushed  to  Carson's  face  outblushed 
his  hair,  thus  destroying  the  tender  harmony  of  "the 
symphony  in  white  and  red."  However,  he  was  too 
manl}-  a  fellow  to  let  his  manner  reflect  even  the  slightest 
shade  of  embarrassment,  that  might  disturb  the  innocent 
girl,  who  unconsciously  shrank  closer  to  her  protector  at 
sight  of  this  stranger.  Releasing  her  hand,  but  holding 
her  more  firmly  by  the  arm  about  her  waist  (believing 
she  did  not  understand  English),  Carson  said,  "How 
are  you,  Randall?  Meeting  you  is  unexpected.  I  hap 
pened  here  at  the  most  opportune  moment." 

"  I  believe  you."  There  was  just  a  shade  of  mirthful 
sarcasm  in  the  doctor's  voice. 

Carson  exclaimed  impetuously,  "Randall,  don't  be 
a  fool !  I  never  saw  the  child  in  m3'  life  until  a  few 
moments  ago,  when  I  shot  that  snake  which  would 
else  have  bitten  her.  I  was  there  at  the  river  when 
I  saw  indications  of  recent  passers-by,  and  was  led 
here  by  the  sound  of  voices.  It  is  always  important 


COACOOCHEE.  253 


to  know  who  are  your  neighbors  when  in  the  enemy's 
country." 

"  Very  important.  It  is  evident  you  have  neglected 
no  precaution.  Au  cont.raire,  you  have  improved 
every  opportunity.  You  have  captured  the  enemy  and 
brought  her  to  terms.  The  conquest  has  been  decisive 
and  rapid,  — the  old  Roman  way,  —  Veni,  vidi,  vici.  But 
as  Mrs.  Leszinksky  is  just  at  the  edge  of  the  wood,  with 
an  escort,  and  the}'  are  coming  this  way,  don't  you  think 
the  child  had  better  try  if  she  can  stand  alone  ?  " 

The  young  girl  until  now  had  watched  the  face  of  her 
protector.  Suddenly  she  turned,  unclasping  Carson's 
arm  from  about  her  she  faced  Randall  with  a  haughty, 
imperious  movement.  There  was  a  moment's  hesitation, 
then  equally  sudden  self-control,  and  she  spoke  earnestly 
and  rapidly  to  the  woman  sitting  on  the  ground.  The 
effect  was  electric.  The  woman  sprang  to  her  feet  and 
commenced  a  barbaric  wailing  chant,  waving  her  arms 
above  her  head,  then,  breaking  into  moaning  sobs,  she 
walked  slowly  toward  the  river. 

The  maiden  stood  motionless  until  the  chant  had 
ceased,  then,  without  a  glance  at  Randall,  she  ap 
proached  Carson,  and  to  the  utter  surprise  of  her  lis 
teners  said,  in  slightly  hesitating,  but  perfect  English, 
"  The  young  chief  has  saved  from  the  fangs  of  the 
chitta-micco  the  widow  of  Waxehadjo  and  the  daugh 
ter  of  Coacoochee.  My  people  do  not  forget.  The 
lodges  of  the  Seminoles  are  always  open  to  the  pre 
server  of  Futtatike  and  Alaha-chayna.*  If  he  is  hungry 
or  tired,  he  will  find  rest  and  food.  If  he  is  beset  with 
enemies,  Coacoochee  will  pay  with  his  life  the  debt  of 
his  child." 

"  What  debt  does  my  child  owe  to  a  warrior  of  the 
pale-faces  ?  " 

With  majestic  mien  Coacoochee  walked  into  the  mid 
dle  of  the  opening,  and,  standing  beside  the  girl,  looked 
from  one  to  the  other  of  his  surprised  listeners. 

The  young  maiden  caught  his  hand,  exclaiming  joy 
ously,  "  Etauteh,  Ahi !."  f 

*  Sweet-Orange.  t  Dear  father. 


254  BABY  RUE. 


The  chiefs  face  softened  in  expression ;  and  to  his 
question,  in  their  own  language,  she  rapidly  gave  tihe 
history  of  her  encounter.  The  bright,  speaking  face,  the 
rapid  yet  graceful  gestures,  easily  translated  her  mean 
ing  to  Randall  and  Carson  ;  and  also  to  another  listener, 
who  was  waiting  under  the  trees,  unobserved  by  an}-  but 
Coacoochee.  As  Alaha-chayna  ended  her  relation,  she 
led  her  father  to  Carson,  and  then  awaited,  with  an 
eager,  confident  look,  the  chiefs  expression  of  thanks. 

The  Seminole  regarded  Carson  closely  ;  then,  as  if  con 
tent  with  what  he  saw,  extended  his  hand,  saying,  "  Coa 
coochee  has  owed  the  pale-faces  man}'  debts,  but  never, 
until  now,  gratitude.  In  the  swamps  and  hummocks 
and  everglades  of  Florida,  he  tried  to  pay  what  he  owed. 
There  are  white  men  now,  in  the  Cherokee  country, 
with  whom  he  has  old  accounts  to  settle.  But  the 
child  of  Coacoochee  has  spoken.  Alaha-cha3'na  has 
pledged  the  friendship  of  Coacoochee  to  the  first  white 
man  who  ever  came  between  Seminole  women  and  dan 
ger.  The  pledge  shall  be  kept.  The  lodges  of  the 
Seminoles  are  open  to  the  young  chief.  The  heart  and 
hand  of  Coacoochee  will  answer  his  call.  If  my  young 
brother  has  anything  to  ask,  let  him  speak." 

Carson  took  the  extended  hand  ;  but  before  he  could 
find  words  to  answer,  Margaret  walked  rapidly  from 
under  the  deepening  shade  of  the  drooping  boughs  and 
vines.  Taking  the  young  girl's  hand  in  hers,  she  laid  her 
other  hand  trustfully  and  appealingly  on  the  chiefs  arm, 
saying,  while  tears  ran  down  her  beautiful  pale  face, 
"  My  brother  has  saved  your  child.  Will  you  give  me 
mine  ?  " 

"  Your  child  is  not  my  prisoner." 

"She  has  been  here  in  your  country, — in  these 
woods.  See!  I  found  this  at  the  instant  —  now,  while 
you  were  speaking ;  I  found  it  in  the  leaves  when  I 
Stood  under  that  tree." 

And  she  held  up  a  tiny  necklace  of  coral,  that  Carson 
instantly  recognized  as  one  he  had  given  Rue.  Putting 
it  in  Carson's  hand,  she  said  :  "  Ask  him  for  my  child  ! 
My  heart  is  breaking  for  her.  O  Rue,  my  baby, 


COACOOCHEE.  255 


where  are  you  ?  "  The  last  words  were  an  agonizing 
cry. 

"Alaha-chayna  looked  appealingly  at  her  father,  who 
stood,  cold  and  unmoved,  beside  Margaret.  The  young 
maiden  hesitatingly  addressed  him.  He  signed  an  im 
perative  negative  to  her  request.  For  an  instant  she 
was  silent ;  then,  with  a  quick  glance  at  Carson,  who 
was  supporting  in  his  arms  the  almost  fainting  mother, 
she  commenced  what  all  those  listeners  knew  to  be  a 
passionate  entreaty.  There  was  an  impatient  exclama 
tion  from  her  father.  Proudly  and  reproachfully  she 
regarded  him  for  a  moment  in  silence,  then,  turning  to 
Margaret:  "  Alaha-cha3'na  cannot  see  unmoved  the 
grief  of  the  sister  of  the  brave  young  chief.  If  Coa- 
coochee  so  soon  forgets,  Alaha-chayna  remembers.  She 
will  speak,  that  the  heart  of  the  weeping  mother  may 
be  glad.  The  little  child  is  in  the  lodge  of  the  Seminole 
chief.  She  is  with  the  wife  of  Coacoochee,  in  the  moun 
tains.  The  daughter  of  Osceola  has  moaned  for  a  year 
over  the  cradle  her  child  left  empty,  when  it  was  called 
to  the  land  of  the  Great  Spirit.  Ning-ah-shaw-na-quita 
is  safe ;  for  the  wife  of  Coacoochee  has  taken  to  her 
heart  the  little  eaglet  Lo-loch-to-hoo-la  placed  in  her 
care." 

In  an  instant  Margaret  clasped  to  her  bosom  the  girl, 
who  warmly  returned  the  embrace,  and  the  two  women 
were  weeping  in  each  other's  arms. 

Carson  was  so  absorbed  by  S3'mpatli3'  for  his  first  love, 
and  rapidly  growing  admiration  for  the  second,  that  he 
utterly  ignored  the  masculine  assistants  at  this  interview. 

Fortunatel}-,  Randall  had  not  so  completely  lost  his 
wits.  He  knew  that  Chief  Ross,  of  the  Cherokees,  had 
been  the  constant  and  unfaltering  friend  of  the  Semi- 
noles  since  his  unhappy  intervention  in  their  affairs  in 
Florida,  when  he  had  pledged  his  honor  for  the  good 
faith  of  the  Government  in  their  dealings  with  the 
Florida  tribes,  if  the}-  would  remove  to  the  Indian 
Territory.  The  very  failure  of  the  Government  to  re 
deem  its  promises,  and  his,  had  attached  Ross  more 
firmly  to  the  deceived  tribes  and  their  much-wronged 


2$6  BABY  RUE. 


allies.  They  had  been  left  homeless  and  landless  on 
their  arrival  in  the  Territory,  because  they  refused  to 
be  settled  in  the  country  of  their  bitter  foes,  the  Creeks, 
which  would  have  subjected  the  Seminoles  to  Creek 
despotism,  and  their  allies  to  Creek  servitude.  The 
representative  of  the  white  claimants  in  Georgia  had 
followed  them  like  a  sleuth-hound  from  Tampa  Bay  to 
the  inhospitable  wilds,  where,  through  the  orders  of  the 
Government,  they  were  now  refused  permission  to  settle, 
except  under  conditions  that  were  impossible  to  this 
brave  though  broken  people.  In  this  extremity  Ross 
had  come  to  their  relief ;  and  they  settled  as  tenants  on 
the  Cherokee  lands,  waiting  for  the  slow  and  partial 
justice  of  the  United  States  to  place  them,  as  Agreed  in 
the  treaty,  on  a  separate  reservation. 

Thoroughly  informed  of  their  history,  Randall  had 
instantly  determined  to  back  Margaret's  appeal  b}'  his 
own  entreaty,  in  the  character  of  friend  and  medical 
adviser  of  the  Cherokee  chief.  He  reminded  the  Semi- 
nole  that  the}'  had  met  the  previous  summer  at  the 
residence  of  Chief  Ross.  Coacoochee  courteously  ad 
mitted  the  acquaintance,  and  graciously  added  that  he 
knew  how  highly  Chief  Ross  esteemed  the  doctor,  whose 
services  had  been  so  kindly  given  when  a  dangerous 
malarial  fever  had  almost  decimated  a  settlement  in  the 
swamp-lands  the  Cherokees  were  trying  to  reclaim. 
The  doctor  made  a  few  politic  remarks  complimentary 
to  his  very  dear  friend,  Chief  Ross,  and  then  adroitly 
led  the  conversation  to  his  present  adventure  with  his 
patient,  who  was  in  failing  health,  rendered  more  serious 
by  the  great  shock  of  her  child's  loss.  At  the  allusion 
the  chief  looked  uneasily  toward  his  daughter  and  her 
interlocutors. 

Again  Randall's  diplomacy  was  quick  and  effective  in 
effort.  He  congratulated  the  chief  on  his  child's  escape, 
and  spoke  with  apparent  frankness  and  heartiness  of 
the  great  pleasure  it  was  to  them  all  that  Carson  had 
been  so  fortunate  as  to  arrive  at  the  very  moment  of 
her  danger.  TJien,  when  the  father's  heart  was  touched 
by  the  thought  of  her  risk,  Randall  spoke  of  her  beauty 


COACOOCHEE. 


and  sweetness,  adding,  with  the  most  naive  and  simple 
expression  of  confidence,  "Carson's  lucky  arrival  has 
saved,  not  only  your  daughter  and  sister,  but  nyy  patient. 
The  reaction  caused  by  the  welcome  news  of  her  child's 
safety,  and  the  soothing  effect  of  your  daughter's  tender 
sympathy,  have  given  me  new  hope  for  the  life  of  which 
I  had  almost  despaired,  when  I  consented,  as  a  last  ex 
pedient,  to  this  dangerous  expedition.  Our  fortunate 
meeting  with  you  has,  of  course,  removed  all  danger 
that  might  have  befallen  us  of  chance  meeting  with  hos 
tile  bands.  Under  your  protection  I  know  my  patient 
is  safe  ;  but  to  your  daughter's  ministration  I  trust  for 
her  restoration  to  health.  She  was  in  a  delicate  condi 
tion  before  this  cruel  loss,  but  the  shock  that  I  thought 
for  a  few  days  would  kill  her,  brought  about  such  a 
restless,  nervous  state  that  I  consented  to  this  journey, 
knowing  the  only  hope  for  her  reason  was  constant 
bodily  fatigue,  which  her  anxiety  for  her  child,  and  her 
firm  belief  in  the  successful  result  of  her  search,  has 
enabled  her  to  bear." 

For  a  few  moments  the  chief  was  silent.  He  had 
listened  to  the  last  few  sentences  with  downcast  eyes, 
and,  when  Randall  ceased  speaking,  seemed  lost  in 
musing.  At  length,  when  he  raised  his  ej-es,  they  met 
Randall's,  which  seemed  to  question  him.  In  a  harsh 
voice,  unlike  his  usual  flute-like  tones,  he  said,  "You 
saw  here,  but  now,  the  sister  of  Coacoochee,  a  widow, 
and  childless.  The  Great  Spirit  has  clouded  her  un 
derstanding,  and  made  her  sacred  as  are  the  mem 
ories  of  the  past.  The  father  of  the  child  you  seek 
killed  Waxehadjo.  Coacoochee  does  not  hold  anger  for 
that  death,  though  the  warriors  of  the  pale-faces  were  a 
hundred  to  one.  It  was  the  chance  of  battle,  and  a 
brave  man  does  not  count  his  foes.  The  wife  of  Wax 
ehadjo,  the  sister  of  Coacoochee,  was  in  the  hummock 
with  her  little  ones.  Two  were  mercilessly  shot.  With 
two  she  escaped  only  to  see  them  die  in  the  pathway  of 
exile.  Yet  Coacoochee  is  not  deaf  to  the  cry  of  the 
wife  of  the  man  who  murdered  the  children  of  his  sister. 
The  woman  can  go  with  the  daughter  of  Coacoochee  to 

17 


258  BABY  RUE. 


the  lodge  in  the  mountains.  The  Seminoles  will  see 
that  her  path  is  safe.  She  can  return  when  she  will, 
but  Coacoochee  cannot  promise  that  she  may  bring  back 
the  child  Lo-loch-to-hoo-la  left  in  his  lodge." 

The  deep  tone  of  the  voice  had  reached  the  three  who 
were  talking  together,  and  held  them  listeners.  Mar 
garet  drew  near  before  the  chief  had  ended  the  first 
sentence,  and  waited  breathless  until  he  was  silent.  At 
the  charge  against  her  husband,  she  flushed  in  angry 
amazement.  Her  king,  the  keeper  of  her  conscience, 
do  a  wrong  like  that?  Her  anger  lasted  through  the 
otter  of  safe  conduct  for  herself,  and  deadened  the  effect 
of  its  final  clause.  Assurance  of  her  child's  safet}-  had 
relieved  the  mother's  heavy  heart  and  aching  brain. 
The  charge  against  her  husband  angered  the  loyal  and 
true  wife. 

"It  is  false  !  M}-  husband  never  ordered  or  witnessed 
the  murder  of  little  children ;  he  would  have  been  the 
first  to  place  himself  between  them  and  danger.  It  is 
cruel  and  cowardly  to  make  such  a  charge  in  his 
absence." 

There  was  a  stead\T,  burning  light  in  the  blue  eyes 
that  looked  into  the  face  of  the  chief.  If  her  words  had 
ended  with  the  indignant  defence  of  the  first  sentence 
it  would  have  been  better.  But  a  woman  is  rarely  con 
tent  with  the  defensive  in  any  contest.  The  feminine 
temper  at  white  heat  seems  to  develop  and  intensify 
the  latent  masculine  aggressive  quality,  which  some 
where  lies  hid  in  the  germ-cells  of  unused  capabilities. 

The  angry  flush  in  the  chiefs  face  that  came  with  the 
charge  in  Margaret's  last  sentence  faded  to  a  tawny 
pallor.  But  before  he  could  answer,  his  daughter  caught 
his  hand,  andi  again  the  sweet  voice  pleaded  for  peace 
and  pity. 

This  gave  Randall  time  to  rally  from  the  confusion 
into  which  Margaret  had  thrown  him,  and  regain  a  hold 
upon  the  web  of  diplomacy,  with  which  he  hoped  to 
entangle  the  chief.  In  fact,  to  this  able  tactician  the 
indignant  wife's  outbreak  was  an  advantage.  Seeing 
instantly  that  the  chief  had  mistaken  Beall  for  the  hus- 


COACOOCHEE.  2$g 


band  of  Margaret,  he  counted  upon  the  rectification  of 
the  error  as  a  reactionary  force  that  would  surely  win  a 
partisan  all  the  more  zealous  because  of  his  recent  con 
version.  With  a  deprecatory  look  at  Margaret,  as  if  to 
praj-  the  chief  to  excuse  weakness,  he  began  :  — 

tk  I  think,  Chief,  you  have  mistaken  some  older 
officer  for  Lieutenant  Leszinksky,  the  husband  of  my 
patient." 

"Leszinksky?"  The  chief  hesitated  a  moment  at 
the  difficult  name.  "  I  do  not  know  any  Leszink 
sky."  The  dark,  frowning  brow,  the  flashing  eyes,  the 
resolute  Hues  of  the  expressive  mouth,  all  said  how 
hateful  was  the  name  he  was  now  forced  to  utter. 
' k  Captain  Beall  was  the  officer  in  command  when  my 
sister's  children  were  murdered." 

"  That  was  in  Florida?"  asked  the  doctor. 

"  Yes." 

Again  Margaret  interrupted:  "I  knew  you  could 
not  mean  my  husband.  He  is  the  friend  of  the  Indian, 
as  he  is  always  of  the  oppressed.  If  you  only  knew 
him,  if  }'ou  could  see  him,  you  would  know  how  im 
possible  it  would  be  for  him  to  see  a  little  child  suffer 
harm.  He  was  never  in  Florida.  He  came  West  from 
Washington.  We  have  lived  here  ever  since  our  mar 
riage.  My  little  daughter  was  born  at  Fort  Laramie. 
The  doctor  can  tell  you  ;  he  was  then  with  us.  He  can 
tell  3'ou  how  we  have  cared  for  little  children  in  the 
Pawnee  country.  My  husband  never  could  have  wit 
nessed,  without  preventing,  that  cruel  deed." 

Into  the  glade  came  the  watcher  that  Coacoochee 
knew  was  waiting  in  the  wood.  Regardless  of  Randall 
or  Carson,  or  the  little  escort  of  three  men  who  were 
near  by  under  the  trees,  Lo-loch-to-hoo-la  walked  into 
the  opening,  and  stood  beside  the  Seminole  chief,  to 
whom  he  spoke  rapidly,  and  with  an  excitement  of  man 
ner  unusual  to  the  dignified  and  silent  Pawnee.  Coa 
coochee  listened  with  marked  interest ;  Alaha-chayna 
with  evident  delight.  At  last,  as  if  unable  longer  to 
repress  her  feeling,  the  young  girl  turned  to  Carson  and 
Margaret :  — 


260  BABY  RUE. 


"  Lo-locli-ta-hoo-la  does  not  forget.  Three  summers 
ago,  when  the  frozen  waters  were  melting,  and  the 
young  grass  putting  out  its  first  leaves,  the  wife  of 
the  Big  Chief  went  to  the  trading-post  at  Larainie  to 
beg  medicine  for  her  husband,  who  seemed  touched  by 
the  spirit  of  death.  Cochosompahatke  1  gave  her  food 
and  clothing  and  medicine.  She  wept  with  the  child 
less  mother,  who  was  afraid  her  husband  was  about  to 
follow  his  little  ones  to  the  land  of  the  Great  Spirit. 
Three  times  the  medicine-man  "  —  pointing  to  Randall 
—  "  came  to  the  lodge  of  Lo-loch-to-hoo-la  ;  he  brought 
gifts  from  the  White  Star  to  the  wearied  wife,  and 
health  to  the  chief.  When  the  Pawnee  woman  again 
sought  her  friend  to  speak  the  words  of  the  grateful 
Indians,  the  White  Star  had  gone  toward  the  rising 
sun  with  her  newly-born  daughter.  The  lodge  of  Lo- 
loch-to-hoo-la  is  desolate ;  but  he  will  give  back  to  her 
mother  the  child  he  saved  from  the  tomahawks  of  las 
tribe." 

i  The  White  Star. 


COACOOCHEE.  26 1 


CHAPTER  XXXI. 

WHAT  !  will  the  line  stretch  out  to  the  crack  of  doom  ? 

SHAKSPERE. 

THINKING  the  reader  a  friend  of  Bob  Stearns 
(the  author  frankly  confesses  the  strength  of  his 
attachment  to. that  charming  ne'er-do-well),  we  will  leave 
the  more  distinguished  personages  of  our  truthful  and 
simple  narrative  to  care  for  themselves  and  each  other, 
while  we  follow  the  fortunes  of  our  re-reformed  tippler 
^nto  the  Comanche  country.  The  author  also  confesses 
to  a  painful  and  prolonged  wrestling  ^  with  conscience 
before  he  could  bring  himself  to  depict  "fairly  the  darker 
side  of  another  character  that  has  taken  firm  hold  of 
his  affection. 

The  moment  the  Seminole  chief  won  Oscar's  confi 
dence,  and  his  blindly  given  promise  to  wait  the  chiefs 
pleasure,  Bob  knew  his  own  captivity,  and  possibly 
death,  was  decided.  The  sagacious  frontiersman  was 
not  at  all  deceived  by  the  suave  and  apparently  friendly 
manner  of  Coacoochee.  Added  to  the  training  of  the 
scout  who  had  served  his  apprenticeship  in  Florida 
and  was  now  passed  master  in  the  school  of  the  plains, 
Bob  had  the  instinctive  judgment  of  character,  the  fa 
cility  in  reading  physiognomy,  that  distinguishes  the 
expert  among  detectives.  As  soon  as  his  oration  was 
finished  he  knew  his  vaulting  ambition  had  o'er-reached 
itself.  His  apologetic  manner  of  sitting  down  upon  the 
negro  and  the  Indian  had  not  exactly  the  effect  in 
tended.  The  boomerang  of  his  diplomacy  had  literally 
"returned  to  plague  the  inventor."  In  uncovering  the 


262  BABY  RUE. 


stores  of  his  knowledge,  he  had  uncovered  the  fact  of 
his  campaigning  in  Florida.  His  vanity  relieved,  his 
oratory  aired,  he  looked  for  results,  and  as  the  rosy 
mists  of  self-conceit  faded,  saw  himself  standing  before 
the  chief,  a  living  exclamation-point  to  accent  the  end 
of  a  bitter  past.  The  self-disgust  that  fast  followed  his 
oratorical  exhibition  so  upset  his  self-confidence  that 
he  blundered  into  those  useless  signals  to  Oscar  that 
had  utterly  failed  to  "catch  the  attention  of  the  single- 
thoughted  and  trustful  negro,  —  a  blunder  that  was 
fatal  to  his  freedom,  and  that  would  have  ended  his 
place  in  this  histor*y  with  a  martyr's  crown,  very  like  a 
fool's-cap,  had  not  the  chief  fallen  into  a  similar  error, 
and,  through  contemptuous  judgment,  undervalued  the 
ability  and  real  courage  of  the  scout. 

Bob  made  no  more  blunders.  The  stinging  pain  of 
tile  discovery  that  he  had  made  an  ass  of  himself,  and 
the  collapse  that  followed  his  succeeding  failure,  brought 
him  to  his  best :  vanity  was  killed,  but  self-confidence 
had  survived  her  decapitated  twin,  and  every  faculty  of 
mind  and  sense  was  alert  and  active. 

The  look  in  Coacoochee's  face  of  ill-concealed  hate 
was  followed  by  a  contemptuous  smile  of  amusement  at 
Bob's  discomfiture  in  the  matter  of  warning  signals. 
The  smile  broadened  as  the  scout's  face  assumed  an 
expression  of  perplexed  amazement,  and  with  a  blank 
visage  he  propounded  the  inquiry,  — 

"  You  ain't  a-goin'  to  send  me  back  without  Oscar, 
and  without  seein'  the  babj-  ?  " 

••  Xo :  the  great  warrior  of  the  savannas  can  rest  in 
the  land  of  the  Comanches  until  the  black  man  hears 
from  his  master." 

Although  the  double  meaning  was  plain  to  Bob,  there 
was  not  the  slightest  change  in  the  expression  of  his 
features  ;  his  eyes  were  lustreless  and  staring ;  there 
was  not  "a  quiver  of  the  partly  opened  mouth ;  nothing 
in  the  general  vacancy  to  betray  the  acute,  quick  in 
telligence  that  was  even  then  forming  the  plan  of  his 
campaign. 

The  scout  knew  from  the  manner  of  Coacoochee  that 


COACOOCHEE.  263 


he  had  more  to  dread  from  the  Seminoles  than  from 
the  Pawnee,  the  only  avowed  enemy  of  the  whites  then 
present.  Alone  and  surrounded  by  foes,  that  he  be-  • 
lievecl  had  already  determined  his  death,  the  indomita 
ble  courage  of  the  man  never  quailed.  In  thought,  he 
was  matching  himself  against  the  odds,  calling  and  num 
bering  for  action  every  quality  that  could  aid  him  in 
the  contest. 

In  one  weakness  of  Bob's  force  the  odds  were  terri 
bly  against  him  ;  for  in  that  weakness  his  nerves  were 
fighting  the  enemy's  battle.  Ever  since  he  had  left 
Bouie's  Hill  he  had  been  beset  bj*  a  foe  more  implaca 
ble  than  Seminole  or  Pawnee.  That  heavy  debauch  at 
Tisson's  had  been  followed  by  a  shock  that  for  a  time 
paralyzed  the  nerves  of  desire. 

At  first,  da3~s  of  fatigue  had  been  succeeded  by  a  few 
hours  of  restful  slumber.  Then  with  renewed  strength 
came  the  craving  for  re-indulgence,  and  the  clutch  of 
the  insensate  habit  pulled  him  from  sleep.  The  inex 
orable  retribution  of  outraged  nature  had  begun. 

Since  the  night  attack  when  the  Comanches  were 
rescued,  Bob  had  scarcely  closed  his  eyes.  Except  for 
his  past  experience,  that  had  taught  him  the  futility  of 
faith  in  such  visions,  he  would  have  believed  real  the 
spectres  that,  at  rapidly  lessening  intervals,  hovered 
over  his  path  like  wandering  will-o'-the-wisps. 

The  imps  of  alcohol  had  taken  the  baby's  form. 
Although  Bob  was  perfectly  conscious  of  the  unreality 
of  these  apparitions,  there  was  a  tinge  of  superstition  in 
his  nature  that  had  already  blended  in  his  thought 
danger  to  the  child  with  his  relapses  into  drunken 
ness. 

By  one  of  those  strange  chances  that  sometimes  ac 
company  such  delusions,  the  spectres  hitherto  had  pre 
ceded  Bob  in  the  path  indicated  by  the  Witchita.  Here 
in  this  rocky  glen  they  seemed  continually  to  wind  around 
and  about  Bob  and  the  Pawnee  chief  in  the  intricate 
figure  of  a  mazy  dance.  There  was  an  apparently  never- 
ending  line  of  Baby  Rues.  Through  all  his  perplexities 
Bob  felt  thankful  there  were  so  many.  One  would  have 


264  BABY  RUE. 


seemed  too  real :  the  multiplied  representatives,  though 
more  visionary,  were  less  uncann}'. 

In  one  way  his  superstition  ruled  Bob.  He  was 
ready  to  follow  unhesitatingly  the  leadership  that  he 
confidently  believed  would  finally  bring  him  to  the  real 
living  child.  The  winding  about  and  around  Lo-loch- 
to-hoo-la  confused  him.  A\ras  the  Pawnee  chief  an  ally 
to  be  solicited,  or  an  enemy  to  attack  ? 

Freighted  with  this  doubt,  the  wandering  glance  of 
the  scout  had  unconsciously  taken  an  expression  of 
wistful  entreat}*,  that  confirmed  Coacoochee  in  his  con 
temptuous  reckoning ;  but  it  had  a  different  effect  on 
the  more  simple  and  sincere  character  of  the  barbaric 
Pawnee. 

Lo-loch-to-hoo-la  crossed  over  to  where  the  Seminole 
and  Bob  were  standing.  Much  to  the  relief  of  our  win- 
somely  dear  drunkard,  the  dancing  babies  clasped  hands 
around  him  and  Lo-loch-to-hoo-la,  making  a  little  dent 
in  the  swiftly-revolving  wheel  at  the  point  where  they 
passed  in  front  of  Coacoochee,  thus  excluding  the  Semi 
nole  from  their  mystic  circle.  Their  meaning  was  clear 
to  Bob,  and  so  his  mind  was  at  ease. 

The  reader  must  not,  in  his  estimate  of  the  scout,  to 
superstition  superadd  weakness  either  of  the  intellect 
or,  save  in  one  deformity,  of  the  moral  nature. 

The  scholarly  scoffer  of  the  nineteenth  century,  who 
plumes  himself  upon  pure  logic  and  strict  conclusions, 
is  not  altogether  free  from  the  deceptions  with  which 
imagination  sometimes  clothes  science.  His  Present  is 
a  half-veiled  sphinx,  who  looks  over  sun-lit  wastes  of 
glittering  sands  ;  his  Future  is  shadowy  with  its  dim 
possibilities,  its  starry  expectations  ;  his  Past,  —  well, 
I'  there  were  (wise)  men  before  Agamemnon."  What 
if  their  wisdom  was  gathered  in  narrowed  wa}rs  and  by 
formless  methods  ?  They  brought  the  world  into  fuller 
light.  Seed-time,  ploughing,  then  the  harvest:  we 
plant  and  work  that  we  may  reap.  Crudeness,  growth, 
fruition,  is  the  Trinity  of  Time  ! 

While  we  were  musing,  Bob  grappled  the  situation. 
Determined  to  follow  the  role  into  which  he  had  stumbled, 


COACOOCHEE.  26$ 


of  the  vain  and  confident  swaggerer  of  the  camp,  with 
the  most  ingeniously  stupid,  the  most  stupidly  honest, 
air,  he  addressed  Lo-loch-to-hoo-la  and  the  Seminole 
chief. 

"Well,  I  must  say  this's  a-pla}-in'  it  white.  I'm 
powerful  tired,  Chiefs,  o'  this  sarcumnavigatin'  'round 
in  the  Comanche  country,  and  if  I  can  lay  off  and  rest 
a  day  or  so,  while  you  send  in  your  env-o-y-s,  I  ain't 
a-goin'  to  complain.  You  see,  I've  been  a-ridin'  and 
a-fightin'  now  nigh  onto  a  couple  o'  weeks  ;  and  't  ain't  no 
let  down  if  I  do  stop  here  fur  a  few  days,  and  wait  fur 
3'ou  to  fix  up  about  the  bab}"'s  ransom  ;  and  I  don't  care 
if  I  do  tell  you  that  our  folks  ain't  a-goin'  to  be  mean 
about  what  the}'  give,  nuther.  You  seen  the  other 
day."  and  he  addressed  Lo-loch-to-hoo-la,  "that  her 
lather  ain't  no  crab  about  givin' ;  he  '11  let  go  of  his  best 
when  a  friend  is  a-needin'  on  it.  He  traded  hoss'es  with 
you,  without  askin'  boot  in  the  swap,  when  he  thought 
our  fellows  was  a-crowdin'  you  onfair  like.  You  see, 
he  knowed,  fur  I  told  him,  that  3-011  'd  been  good  to  the 
bab}' ;  an'  so  be  any  on  us  fellows  can  ever  do  j'ou  a 
good  turn  out  on  the  plains,  why,  we  ain't  likely  to  for 
get  it.  We  ma}'  sometimes  disremember  some  things  ; 
but  this  here  about  .your  standin'  the  baby's  friend  ain't 
one  o'  them  things." 

Two  pair  of  keen  eyes  were  watching  Bob  with  different 
expressions.  Glowing  through  the  soft,  lustrous  dark 
ness  of  Coacoochee's  was  a  baleful  light  of  flame-like 
red,  angry  as  the  tongue  of  a  viper,  while  Lo-loch-to- 
hoo-la's  fiery  glance  had  softened  in  the  gathering  mist 
of  newly  awakened  feeling.  The  Seminole  had  watched 
the  Pawnee  during  Bob's  second  attempt  at  speech-mak 
ing.  An  angry  flush  told  his  displeasure  with  the  effect 
he  saw,  more  truly  than  did  the  measured  accents  now 
addressed  to  the  Big  Chief  in  the  Pawnee  tongue. 

Through  this  dialogue  Bob  stood  unmoved,  carelessly 
cutting  a  fresh  quid  of  tobacco,  with  an  air  of  listless 
unconcern  that  completely  deceived  Coacoochee  as  to 
his  linguistic  accomplishments.  He  heard  the  Pawnee 
ask  that  he  be  permitted  to  see  the  baby,  and  then  sent 


266  BABY  RUE. 


back  to  her  father,  with  news  of  the  child,  and  also  the 
horse,  that  the  chief  insisted  had  been  lent  him  to  meet 
the  exigency  of  the  time. 

Coacoochee  listened  courteously,  but  plausibly  insisted 
that,  owing  to  the  danger  it  would  be  to  his  hunted 
allies  (the  black  Indians),  he  dared  not  trust  a  white 
man  with  the  secret  of  the  fastness  ;  that  he  could  risk 
Oscar,  whose  observation  and  intelligence  were  less  to 
be  feared,  and  whom  he  hoped  to  win  through  the  per 
suasion  of  Louis  Pacheco  and  the  influence  of  race. 

The  Pawnee  with  evident  reluctance  gave  up  the  first 
clause  of  his  request,  that  Bob  should  see  the  child,  but 
urged  persistently  that  he  should  be  sent  back  with  the 
horse,  and  a  message  from  Lo-loch-to-hoo-la  to  "the 
chief  with  the  honest  eyes  and  true  heart,  who  had  saved 
him  from  capture."  Coacoochee  yielded  with  apparent 
cordialit}*,  but  with  one  brief  glance  Bob  read  the  Scmi- 
nole's  face,  and  knew  the  concession  was  meant  to 
deceive. 

Ten  minutes  later  Sultan  was  led  into  the  glen  by 
a  Seminole  boy.  With  a  frank,  kindly  look,  and  a 
gesture  of  invitation,  Lo-loch-to-hoo-la  directed  Bob  to 
mount  the  horse  Leszinksky  had  given  the  Big  Chief  in 
that  exchange  east  of  the  Washita. 

Nothing  in  all  his  life  had  ever  required  from  Bob 
such  a  resolute  effort  of  will ;  for  the  line  of  dancing 
babies  were  clambering  over  and  around  the  horse  in 
such  pell-mell  rushes,  such  frantic  leaps,  such  reckless 
tumbles,  that  every  step  he  made,  as  he  advanced  and 
put  his  foot  in  the  stirrup,  was  a  danger  to  some  one  of 
this  company  of  juggling  sprites.  With  a  last  resolute 
effort,  Bob  sprang  into  the  saddle,  although  he  could 
not  refrain  from  a  half-uttered  cry  of  dismay  as  a  little 
golden  head  flattened  under  his  leg.  He  caught  hastily 
at  the  clustering  curls  ;  but  his  hand  no  sooner  went 
through  the  ainr  nothings  and  touched  the  saddle  than 
he  recovered  his  self-control.  Seeing  the  surprised 
chiefs  watching,  he  looked  determinately  past  a  little 
imp,  who  was  perched  on  one  foot  on  the  curving,  high 
pommel,  and  laughed  in  a  half-stupid,  half-defiant  way, 


COACOOCHEE.  267 


as  he  said  :  "  I  'm  mighty  willin'  to  get  a  lift  fur  I  'm 
tired  o'  walkin' ;  but,  I  must  say,  it 's  a  damned  unhan- 
some  bizness  if  you  mean  to  turn  me  and  Sultan  loose 
•without  any  pervishun  train,  in  here  behind  them 
crawlin'  Comanches,  that 's  a-lyin'  hid  between  us  and 
the  command ;  when  I  expected  me  and  Oscar  would 
see  the  baby.  Wh}-,  so  be  an'  I  had  to  fight  on  it,  I  'm 
free  to  say,  it  ain't  what  I  expected  of  real  warriors." 

And  Bob  skilfully  counterfeited  his  late  distressful 
ciy,  only  he  made  it  end  in  a  defiant  ring  that  seemed 
like  the  last  notes  of  a  prolonged  war-whoop.  As  if  to 
fit  the  gesture  to  the  word,  he  threw  his  arms  above  his 
head,  and  then,  bending  forward  in  his  saddle,  with  a 
succession  of  waving  motions,  he  displaced  the  crowd 
ing  spectres. 

An3T  of  my  readers  who  have  witnessed  the  terror  and 
helplessness  of  a  strong  man,  when  beset  by  the  phan 
toms  of  an  imagination  disordered  by  alcohol,  will  easily 
understand  the  wonderful  effort  made  by  Bob  to  fight  his 
own  deceptions,  at  the  same  time  he  deceived  his  enemy. 

Lo-loch-to-hoo-la  came  close,  and,  throwing  his  arm 
over  Sultan's  neck,  addressed  Bob  in  the  Comanche 
language.  The  poor  fellow  forced  himself  to  listen 
understandingly,  although  the  liliputian  spectres  were 
wildly  rushing  up  the  chiefs  arm  to  the  very  top  of 
the  waving  feathers  tied  in  his  scalp-lock,  from  which, 
with  the  speed  of  thought,  the}*  sprang  back  to  Sul 
tan's  head.  The  Pawnee  commenced:  "Say  to  the 
father  of  Ning-ah-shaw-na-qui-ta  that  Lo-loch-to-hoo-la 
will  wait  here  in  the  mountains  until  the  path  through 
the  forest  is  open  to  his  friend.  He  will  talk  with  the 
father  of  the  child  he  found  on  the  war-path ;  and  the 
Great  Spirit  will  say  with  whom  she  shall  dwell.  Lo- 
loch-to-hoo-la  sends  back  the  horse  shod  with  lightning, 
that  his  friend  may  know  the  Pawnee  will  not  forget." 

Just  then  a  knowing  little  imp,  who  had  gravely 
stopped  on  the  chiefs  ear  to  listen  to  the  conversation, 
ran  up  on  his  scalp-lock,  and,  balancing  for  a  second, 
bowed  and  winked  to  Bob  with  such  an  air  of  assenting 
wisdom  that  the  trooper  had  much  ado  to  restrain  a 


268  BAB Y  RUE. 


ringing  laugh.  Before  he  recovered  from  the  confusion 
of  a  half-grin  and  a  desperate  swallow,  Coacoochee, 
affecting  to  think  Lo-loch-to-hoo-la's  last  words  meant 
dismissal,  gave  the  cry  :  -'  To-ho-echee  !  "  1 

In  an  instant  half  a  dozen  young  braves  rode  into  the 
glen.  A  few  minutes  later  Bob  was  in  the  centre  of  a 
party  of  horsemen,  riding  rapidly  down  the  bed  of  the 
little  creek  he  had  ascended  with  Oscar  and  the  Witch- 
ita.  When  they  reached  the  point  where  the  three 
branches  united,  they  suddenly  turned  southward,  in  a 
direction  that  Bob  knew  would  soon  lead  them  into  the 
trail  from  the  Washita  to  the  Comanche  villages.  It 
was  evident  to  the  scout  that  Coacoochee  had  deceived 
the  Pawnee  chief:  that  neither  the  horse  Lo-loch-to- 
hoo-la  wished  to  return,  or  its  rider,  were  to  go  to  the 
camp  east  of  the  Washita.  This  confirmation  of  his 
suspicions  made  him  credit  Coacoochee  with  the  most 
sinister  motives.  In  the  highty-excited  condition  of 
his  nerves  and  his  imagination,  to  awaken  distrust  was 
to  blind  .his  judgment.  The  slightest  evidence  of  bad 
faith  was  enough  to  change  doubt  to  certainty.  He 
now  credited  Coacoochee  with  treachery  to  Lo-loch-to- 
hoo-la,  not  only  in  the  affair  of  the  message  to  the 
father  of  the  little  captive,  but  also  in  his  dealing  with 
the  child.  Ever}*  change  of  expression  in  the  look  or 
manner  of  either  of  the  young  braves  of  his  escort  was 
another  proof  of  their  evil  designs. 

Added  to  all  this  was  a  startling  change  in  Bob's  illu 
sions.  He  had  seen  the  last  phantom  of  the  lost  baby 
waving  him  adieu  from  Lo-loch-to-hoo-la's  shoulder. 
At  the  edge  of  the  wood,  where  he  left  the  chiefs,  a 
wild-cat  sprang  from  the  gnarled  bough  of  an  immense 
oak  to  his  pommel. 

Whenever  he  forced  himself  to  look  away  from  the 
apparition  (that  his  superstition  defined  as  the  double 
of  Coacoochee)  a  sort  of  weird  fascination  brought 
back  his  wandering  gaze  to  the  glittering  eyes  whose 
stare  seemed  to  transfix  him. 

The  night  before  the  battle  at  the  foot  of  the  Peak, 
1  The  gathering  cry  of  the  Seminoles. 


COACOOCHEE.  269 


Bob  had  gone  to  the  surgeon  for  help  in  this  derange 
ment  of  the  senses,  that  had  then  begun  to  fill  space 
with  delusions.  Medical  skill,  at  that  date,  could  only 
give  opiates.  The  drug  gave  him  three  hours  heavy 
sleep  before  the  battle,  and  helped  to  keep  the  nerves 
stimulated  during  the  excitement  of  the  forty-eight 
sleepless  hours  that  had  followed.  In  that  night  expe 
dition  through  the  Pawnee  camp,  he  had  lost  the  little 
box  of  opium  that  was  to  have  lasted  until  the  clear, 
sweet  December  air  and  health}'  fatigue  should  work  a 
cure.  Knowing  Bob's  force,  strength,  and  vitality,  the 
surgeon  had  thought  the  remedy  sufficient ;  he  had  not 
taken  into  his  reckoning  the  chance  of  sudden  depriva 
tion  of  the  potent  drug.  Add  to  this  physical  giving 
way,  the  drunkard's  memory,  that  runs  riot  in  recollec 
tion  of  indulgence,  bringing  to  the  palate  the  ghosts  of 
taste,  —  more  terrible  in  effect  and  persistence  than  the 
wandering  spectres  of  vision,  —  and  the  reader  will  be 
gin  to  understand  the  odds  already  against  Bob,  when 
this  last  imp  sprang  from  the  purgatory  of  unreal  reali 
ties  that  surround  the  drunkard. 

The  poor  fellow  made  as  gallant  a  fight  as  ever  did 
soldier  on  the  tented  field.  Unselfish  as  brave,  he  kept 
constantly  in  his  thoughts  the  little  child,  and  the  dan 
gers  that  he  now  imagined  surrounded  her.  For  her 
sake  he  resisted  his  tormenter,  and  resolute!}'  proved 
its  unreality  by  touch.  He  hammered  the  pommel 
where  his  last  and  most  formidable  enemy  perched,  and, 
to  give  excuse  for  the  blows,  made  them  keep  time  to  a 
melody  he  whistled  gayly.  Every  time  the  hand  passed 
through  the  shadowy  foe  was  a  second's  respite  from  the 
chilling  terror  that,  in  spite  of  his  almost  superhuman 
effort,  began  to  close  about  him  in  a  sort  of  suppression 
that  seemed  to  tighten  and  throttle  the  throbbing  ar 
teries  that  whizzed  aloud  with  the  rushes  of  the  full 
pulse-tides.  Suddenly  the  Seminoles  with  him  uttered 
their  war-cry,  as  they  galloped  into  the  broad  Comanche 
trail,  where,  some  twenty  }"ards  distant,  a  part}"  of 
painted  warriors  were  waiting.  Bob's  spectre  sprang  to 
the  ground,  rapidly  increasing  in  size  until  it  seemed  to 


2/0  BAB  Y  RUE. 


fill  an  immensity  of  space.  The  scout  halted,  horror- 
struck,  as  the  terrible  apparition  rolled  into  his  lap,  the 
bleediug,  decapitated  head  of  Rue.  With  a  choking 
cry,  the  poor  fellow  rose  in  his  stirrups,  threw  up  his 
hands  in  a  last  wild  struggle,  and  fell  to  the  ground  in 
violent  convulsions. 


COACOOCHEE.  2?  I 


CHAPTER  XXXII. 

AND  out  and  cam  the  thick,  thick  bluid, 

And  out  and  cam  the  thin, 
And  out  and  cam  the  bonny  hert's  bluid: 

Thair  was  nae  life  left  in. 

PERCY'S  RELIQUES. 

AT  midnight  the  Osage  Carson  had  sent  through  the 
Blue-River  pass  reached  Camp  Refuge.  (It  had 
been  christened  in  a  baptism  of  blood  with  the  name 
Pike  gave  it  in  the  clinching  peroration  of  his  first  and 
last  effort  at  oratory.)  At  the  distant  hail  of  the  In 
dian  the  camp  was  aroused.  Young  Hancock,  who  was 
on  watch,  hastily  called  "  Halt! "  at  the  same  time  re 
straining  the  zeal  of  the  guard,  who  had  levelled  their 
muskets  at  the  moving  figure  dimly  seen  in  the  star 
light. 

Before  the  Osage  reached  the  hillock,  the  officers, 
including  the  recently-elected  captain  of  the  teamsters, 
were  grouped  about  the  little  howitzer,  while  every  man 
of  the  small  force  was  up  and  ready  for  action. 

By  the  light  of  a  couple  of  tallow-dips,  that  his  aids 
assiduously  sheltered  from  the  breeze,  Leszinksky  read 
Colonel  Kearny's  dispatches  and  Carson's  short  note. 
The  flickering  little  points  of  flame  lit  the  face  of  the 
young  commander,  and  the  watchers  who  were  crowded 
about  read  the  evil  tidings  in  his  frowning  brow  and  the 
lines  of  pain  around  the  firmly-closed  mouth.  He 
handed  the  unfolded  papers  to  Buford  and  Hancock, 
and,  leaning  upon  the  little  gun,  covered  his  face  with 
his  hands.  A  moment,  and  his  thoughts  were  brought 
to  the  needs  of  the  present  by  the  question,  "  What 
shall  we  do,  Lieutenant  ?  " 


2/2  BABY  RUE. 


Raising  his  face,  without  am*  effort  at  concealment, 
he  wiped  away  the  tears  with  which  it  was  wet,  and,  in 
a  voice  that  steadied  as  he  ended  the  first  sentence,  he 
said,  "  We  must  instantly  send  messengers  to  all  the 
forts."  Then,  turning  to  Pike  and  the  crowd  of  ex 
pectant,  anxious  men,  he  continued,  "  The}-  have  had 
a  battle  with  the  Comanches  near  the  Witchita  Hills, 
and  the  regiment  is  hard  hit.  Captain  Moore  is 
killed." 

A  groan  of  grief  and  rage  came  from  the  little  detach 
ment  of  the  dragoons  who  belonged  to  Moore's  company  ; 
deep  oaths  and  muttered  curses  from  the  infantrymen  and 
teamsters,  who  were  pressing  close  to  hear  the  news. 

The  speaker,  who  it  was  evident  was  trying  to  master 
his  grief,  motioned  for  silence  as  he  said,  "  Our  com 
rades  are  over  there,  the  other  side  of  the  Cross  Tim 
bers,  with  their  wounded  and  dead,  waiting  for  help. 
Step  by  step  the}*  have  fought  their  way  back.  Embar 
rassed  as  they  are  they  dare  not  risk  the  passage  through 
the  Cross  Timbers  until  they  are  reinforced  and  the  way 
is  cleared  —  " 

A  voice  interrupted  :  "  We  are  read}',  Lieutenant,  to 
march  this  minute !  "  A  chorus  took  up  the  cry  :  "  Yes, 
we  are  ready !  " 

Again  he  quieted  them  with  a  gesture. 

"  We  can  best  help  the  regiment  by  strict  obedience 
to  Colonel  Kearny's  orders.  He  commands  me  to  hold 
this  camp,  and  its  supplies,  now  so  needful,  until  rein 
forcements  reach  us.  Then  we  are  to  advance  to  the 
ford  above  Wild  Horse  Creek,  sending  a  detachment 
to  clear  the  timbers,  while  we  protect  the  crossing.  I 
have*no  doubt  that  the  Indians  who  attacked  us  are  still 
watching  this  camp.  For  a  messenger  to  pass  their 
lines  in  safety  will  require  prudence,  as  well  as  courage. 
It  is  a  perilous  path ;  every  step  of  the  way  from  here 
to  Fort  Washita  is  beset  with  danger.  Yet  it  is  the 
nearest  point  from  which  help  can  come.  I  want  volun 
teers,  —  men  who  in  the  path  of  duty  are  not  afraid  of 
death." 

From  the  young  subalterns,  from  soldiers  and  team- 


COACOOCHEE.  273 


sters,  there  were  cries  of  acceptance.  They  were  all  by 
general  acclaim  volunteer  messengers  ;  each  insisted, 
all  claimed  priority.  Then  individual  fitness  was  urged. 
Resolute,  modest  men  seemed  braggarts  in  their  insist- 
ance,  in  their  discussion  of  qualities.  Age  sneered  at 
youth,  experience  at  speed ;  while  all,  according  to 
their  own  showing,  were  gifted  with  strength  and  endur 
ance.  At  last  a  compatriot  of  Pike,  a  wizen-faced,  little 
atom}',  a  hanger-on  of  the  camp,  known  in  the  regiment 
as  "Little  Miser}',"  climbed  on  the  giant's  shoulder, 
and  screamed  out  in  a  ridiculous  little  quavering  treble 
his  fitness :  — 

"  I  'm  the  he  what  ought  ter  go.  I  on'y  weigh  ninety- 
eight  poun' !  I  've  rid  races  in  ole  Missouiy  ever  sinct 
I  could  stick  on  ter  a  hoss,  an'  I  allus  wun  'em.  I'm 
the  buzzard  as  kin  do  it  quick.  I  sails  high  in  fa'r 
weather ;  but  when  I  goes  in  fur  meat,  I  kin  lay  low 
and  fly.  Who-o-p  !  I  'm  the  feller  ter  go.  Don't  listen 
at  these  bull-frogs  a-braggin'  how  they  '11  jump,  but  jes 
gim  me  that  thoroughbred  o'  Leftenant  Buford's,  an' 
I  '11  be  at  Fort  "VVashita  an'  ^Towson  an'  back  hyar  be 
fore  Pike  gets  it  through  his  head  that  I  've  gone." 

He  lifted  the  giant's  hat,  and  pulled  the  yellow  curls. 
There  was  a  ripple  of  laughter  as  Pike  caught  the  man 
ikin  between  his  thumb  and  forefinger,  and  held  him 
at  arm's  length.  Then,  in  half-shame  at  the  untimely 
mirth,  they  noisily  and  with  more  warmth  of  temper 
resumed  the  discussion,  looking  askant  at  Little  Misery, 
who,  perched  on  the  howitzer,  fiercely  shook  his  wiry" 
knot  of  fingers  at  the  stolid  soldier  who  had  placed  him 
there. 

For  a  few  moments,  Leszinksky  tried  in  vain  to  make 
himself  heard.  Finally  the  contestants  paused  in  a  sort 
of  half-hush  for  breath.  With  a  grave  smile  he  looked 
around  the  excited  group  as  he  said,  "If  left  entirely 
alone  here,  I  do  not  think  I  could  make  a  successful 
defence  of  this  camp  ;  yet  the  supplies  we  are  guarding 
are  not  only  needful  but  invaluable  to  the  wounded  and 
suffering.  The  enemy  attacked  us  because  they  knew 
the  importance  of  the  supplies  here  to  the  command 

18 


2/4  BABY  RUE. 


they  hoped  to  cut  off.  Now  we  can  realize  the  value 
of  our  successful  defence.  If  they  had  defeated  us,  had 
captured  this  camp,  they  would  have  been  better  armed 
for  that  battle  at  the  Witchita  Peak,  and  the  retreat  of 
the  regiment  would  have  ended  in  a  general  massacre 
before  help  could  have  reached  them.  We  have  here 
medicine,  food,  and  ammunition.  The  reinforcements 
that  come  can  come  rapidty ;  they  will  need  no  supply 
train.  But  now  I  must  call  for  volunteers  to  sta}T  and 
help  me  guard  this  camp,  which  is  truly  a  '  Camp  of 
Refuge." 

There  were  muttered  words  of  assent,  low-spoken 
doubts  as  to  the  right  thing  to  do,  and  a  few  hastily- 
checked  oaths.  The  men  had  begun  to  understand  the 
character  of  their  young  commander ;  the}7  had  tested 
the  fighting  qualities  of  the  soldier,  and  so  the}'  respected 
the  Christian.  The  claims  were  not  withdrawn,  but  the 
claimants  were  hushed ;  they  began  to  think  it  might  be 
as  soldierly  to  stay  as  to  go.  The  morale  of  the  camp 
•was  coming  to  its  best.  Obedience  would  be  rendered 
to  command ;  but  if  choice  were  permitted,  and  the 
comparative  risk  could  be  estimated,  each  soldier  would 
choose  the  path  where  Dut}-  faced  Danger. 

A'fter  a  short  consultation,  the   announcement  was 

made  that  Lieutenant  Hancock  and  Little  Misery  were 

to  go  to  Forts  Washita  and  Towson.    The  young  officer 

was  to  return  with  the  first  detachment  of  the  reinforce- 

.ment. 

Pike's  offer  to  go  alone  through  the  Cross  Timbers, 
•with  news  of  the  arrival  of  Carson's  messenger  and 
the  successful  defence  of  the  camp  and  its  supplies, 
was  accepted.  The  giant  was  the  first  to  leave  the 
camp.  Clad  in  a  simple  hunting-shirt  and  buckskin 
breeches,  with  Indian  leggins  and  moccasins,  his  head 
thrust  through  a  rough  blanket,  and  covered  with  a 
wide-brimmed  slouch  hat ;  a  heavy  bowie-knife  in  his 
leathern  belt,  balanced  by  one  of  the  recently-invented 
Colt's  revolvers  ;  a  haversack,  powder-horn,  and  bullet- 
pouch  slung  over  his  broad  shoulders,  and  in  his  left 
hand  a  long-barrelled  Mississippi  rifle,  he  looked  the 


COACOOCHEE.  2?$ 


colossal  model  of  the  frontier  partisan,  as  he  joined  the 
little  group  of  officers  and  men,  who  were  in  the  corral 
made  by  the  enclosing  wagons,  where  Buford's  thor 
oughbred  was  being  saddled. 

Perched  on  the  backboard  of  a  wagon,  Little  Miser}',  in 
all  the  pomp  of  a  jockey  who  is  about  to  ride  the  favorite 
to  the  running-post,  was  giving  directions  to  the  volun 
teer  grooms  who  were  rubbing  the  flanks  of  the  splendid 
bay.  Near  by  stood  Leszinksky  and  Hancock  in  earnest 
talk,  while  Buford  superintended  the  toilet  of  the  steed 
whose  speed  was  to  bring  safet}*  to  the  comrades  who 
were  as  dear  to  him  as  brothers,  to  the  regiment  in 
which  centred  his  soldierly  pride. 

The  manikin  on  his  perch  was  the  first  to  observe  the 
approach  of  the  giant ;  the  broken  treble  in  which  he 
shouted  :  "  Wh-o-o-p  !  "  startled  all  the  assistants. 
Tossing  up  and  catching  his  ragged,  brimless  makeshift 
of  a  cap,  he  continued:  ''Hurray  for  ole  Missoury ! 
Her  big  bufferler  's  a  startin'  on  the  war-path,  an'  her 
game  buzzard  's  a  goin'  ter  fly.  Hurray  for  the  biggest 
Pike  she  ever  riz !  Now  jes  chaw  yer  tongue,  ole 
feller,  till  it  splits,  so  yer  can  fling  yer  jaw  at  'em 
an'  then  sing  out"  to  them  fightin'  cocks,  over  yonder 
in  that  Injun  pit,  to  bristle  out  their  feathers,  an' 
rip  in  with  thar  gaffs,  fur  the  blue  hen's  chickens  is 
boun'  ter  win.  Tell  'em  Little  Misery  an'  Leftenant 
Hancock 's  a  comin'  with  a  fresh  main,  an'  by  the 
time  thar  spurs  strike,  there  won't  be  a  skulkin' 
red  rooster  left  to  crow  in  the  Comanche  country. 
Wh-o-o-p !  " 

Pike  laid  his  hand  lightly  on  the  manikin's  shoulder, 
as  he  spoke  to  Leszinksk}*. 

"  I  'm  ready  to  start,  Laotinent.  I  'm  gwine  to  try  it 
up  the  bed  o'  this  little  creek  to  the  sand-hills  ;  then  I  '11 
cross  to  the  Washiter.  If  the  Injuns  is  a-watchin'  the 
ford  I  may  have  a  tussle  with  'em.  So  be  an'  you  hyar 
my  gun  you  '11  know  there  ain't  no  lack  o'  the  pesky  var 
mints  at  the  ford.  But  don't  come  or  send  any  of  the 
boys.  I  know  they'd  be  might}*  willin'  to  come,  but  it 
would  n't  do  no  good,  an'  you  'ud  be  throwing  away 


276  BABY  RUE. 


3'our  chances.  If  thar  ain't  no  savages  about,  I  '11  send 
you  a  sign.  Thar 's  one  thing  I  thought  o'  tellin'  our 
ingineer"  —  and  he  smiled  at  Hancock.  "If  he  and 
Little  Miser}'  will  start  with  the  Osage  and  go  to  the 
northeast  about  five  miles,  he  can  put  'em  in  a  trail  to 
Fort  Washiter,  that  the  Injuns  won't  be  so  apt  to  watch. 
I  've  been  a  talkin'  to  him,  and  he  says  it 's  a  plain  trail, 
and  mostly  open  ground,  so  they  '11  have  a  fair  track  if 
they  have  to  run  fur  it." 

"  We  are  well  mounted  and  well  armed,  and  can 
break  through  a  small  force." 

The  resolute  look  of  the  blue  eyes,  and  the  straight, 
elastic  pose  of  the  slight,  boyish  figure,  said  more  than 
the  words. 

"  Yes,  sir.  I  know  you  're  willin'  to  fight,  an'  you  're 
steady  and  cool  when  you  're  in  it.  You  fit  like  one  o' 
our  reg'ment  might  a-done,  the  other  dajr,  —  steady  and 
cool  and  no  back  down ;  that 's  the  stuff  to  make  sol 
diers.  But  you're  }'oung.  Well,  that  ain't  no  harm." 
And  again  the  giant  smiled  in  a  kindly  way  at  the  boy 
officer.  "You'll  come  o'  that,  and  you'll  larn  back 
woods  ingineering ;  but  we  won't  say  no  more  o'  that," 
he  added,  as  he  saw  the  flush  in  the  young  face. 
"I'm  sure  you'll  fight  like  a  brave  man,  without  arth- 
works.  On'y  remember  this  ain't  no  Jightirf  ride.  It 's  a 
hard  thing  fur  a  }'oung  man,  and  a  plucky  one  at  that, 
to  do ;  but  3'ou  '11  have  to  give  up  your  own  feelins  if 
you  meet  Injuns.  Ton  could  risk  the  fight,  I  know, 
at  heavy  odds,  but  the  vegment  over  yonder  with  the 
wounded  and  the  dyin'  can't  take  no  risks.  The  bravest 
thing  you  can  do  now  is  to  run  from  any  Injun.  It 's 
hard;  but  if  you'll  think  o'  them  over  thar,  you'll 
do  it." 

The  young  officer  held  out  his  hand,  and  as  it 
vanished  in  Pike's  broad  palm,  he  said:  "You  are 
right,  Pike,  and  I  thank  you  for  saying  this  so 
frankly.  I  see  that  our  commander  approves  3"our 
advice.  I  shall  remember  that  my  courage  must  all 
gather  into  my  horse's  heels.  It  is  not  a  fight,  but  a 
race  to  win;  and  the  stakes  are  our  comrades'  lives. 


COACOOCHEE.  277 


Tell  them  over  there  that  we  are  sure  to  get  through, 
sure  to  bring  them  help." 

"Yes!"  screamed  the  manikin,  who  had!  wriggled 
from  under  Pike's  restraining  hand,  and  was  now  stand 
ing  in  an  easy  balance  on  the  corner  of  the  wagon, 
"  You  jes  tell  'em  the  Hancock  flyer  is  boun'  tu  win. 
He 's  got  the  wind  and  the  bottom,  an'  he 's  a-goin' 
steady  an'  strong,  and  Little  Misery's  his  running 
mate.  AVho-o-p !  Cock-a-doodle-do !  " 

There  was  a  kindly  leave-taking  with  the  men  and 
officers,  —  warm  grasps  of  the  hand  and  heartfelt 
wishes  for  his  safe  arrival  in  the  beleagured  camp. 
Then  Pike  started  on  his  perilous  journe}',  accompanied 
for  a  short  distance  by  Leszinksky,  who  had  learned  to 
value  the  sterling  character  of  the  usually  taciturn  sol 
dier.  For  a  few  moments  they  walked  in  silence  ;  then 
suddenly  Pike  stopped. 

"  Don't  go  any  fiirder,  Lootinent.  It  distarbs  me,  like. 
I'm  a-thinkin'  o'  you,  an'  not  watchin'  my  way.  If 
thar  's  Injuns  about,  —  and  it 's  most  like,  —  we  must 
do  our  last  talking  hy-ar.  I  thought  jes  now  I  hy-ared 
a  coyote  up  thar  at  that  ridge ;  but  it  mought  a-ben  a 
Injun.  Don't  go  any  furder,  sir ;  I  've  trouble  in  my 
mind." 

"  Very  well ;  I  will  say  good-by,  here.  You  have  my 
best  wishes,  Pike,  for  your  own  sake  as  well  as  for  the  sake 
of  the  regiment.  You  have  been  of  great  value  here,  as 
well  as  a  great  comfort  to  me.  I  have  been  attached  to 
you  heretofore  by  ties  of  grateful,  affectionate  regard ; 
now  you  have  taught  me  to  esteem,  to  respect  you.  We 
are  not  only  fellow-soldiers  :  we  are  children  of  the  one 
Father.  So,  with  prayers  for  your  safety,  I  leave  you 
in  His  keeping." 

For  a  moment  the  giant  held  Leszinksky's  hand,  with 
out  a  word.  When  he  did  speak,  there  were  tears  in  the 
voice. 

"You've  done  me  a  power  o'  good,  sir.  You're  a 
blessin'  to  the  VQg'ment.  I  had  n't  never  quite  forgot  my 
mammy  and  her  lovin'  ways  ;  but  sometimes  it  'pears  like 
you  and  Mrs.  Leszinsky  have  brung  her  rite  from  the 


278  BABY  RUE. 


grave  to  me.  I  allus  tries  now  to  do  His  will "  (and  he 
pointed  heavenward).  "I  tries,  but  sometimes  it's 
hard  to  beat  out  ole  sins.  I  means  to  do  right  by  man 
and  beast,  —  by  everything  He  made ;  and  if  I  don't 
allus  make  it,  why,  He  knows  I  tries.  I'm  more 
obleeged  to  you  than  I  can  say,  sir,  fur  all  you  've  done 
fur  me,  fust  and  last, — most  of  all,  fur  sayin'  j'ou'll 
pray  for  me.  If  I  have  to  go  '  through  the  deep  waters,' 
I'll  know  vou're  a-prayin',  and  I'll  know  that  our 
Father '11  holp  me." 

Before  Leszinksky  could  say  another  word,  the  brave, 
simple-minded  fellow  was  gone. 

Having  finished  their  cavalry  inspection,  and  selected 
as  Hancock's  mount  a  dark  roan,  wir}T  and  str.ong,  with 
a  reputation  for  speed  that  ranked  him  in  the  regiment 
second  to  Buford's  thoroughbred,  the  young  officers  ran 
up  the  little  eminence  to  watch  the  starlit  prairie  until 
Leszinksky  returned  from  his  walk  with  Pike. 

His  selection  as  express-rider  to  Fort  Towson  had  so 
inflamed  the  everbounding  conceit  of  Little  Misery  that, 
with  an  air  of  taking  place  where  he  belonged,  he  fol 
lowed  the  two  3"oung  men,  after  giving  the  most  pom 
pously  imperious  directions  to  his  former  comrades  of 
the  stable. 

"  Now  3'ou  kin  stop  a-rubbin'  my  hoss ;  he  '11  do  at 
that.  Gin  him  a  mouthful  o'  that  wet  grass  ter  chaw  on  till 
we're  off.  It'll  clean  his  gills,  an'  start  him  peert. 
Yer  mought  loosen  the  girths  a  notch  or  two,  but  don't 
forget  to  tighten  'em  when  yer  bring  him  roun'  to  the 
start.  An'  that  roan  the  leftenant  's  a-goin'  ter  ride,  — 
jes'  lead  him  up  and  down  out  thar  till  we  're  ready. 
He  ain't  game,  like  the  thoroughbred ;  but  he 's  a  awful 
fast  scrub  when  he 's  warmed.  "We  mought  need  his 
best  go  right  hy-ar  at  the  start ;  so  jes'  walk  him  roun', 
an'  limber  him  up." 

The  dragoons  laughed  good-naturedly,  and  the  young 
officers  could  not  restrain  broad  smiles  at  the  mani 
kin's  assumption. 

Leszinksky  soon  returned,  and  the  most  absolute 
silence  was  kept  on  the  hill-top,  where  all  were 


COACOOCHEE.  279 


anxiously  listening  to  every  breath  of  the  night  that 
was  likely  to  bring  news  from  the  daring  yet  modest 
soldier.  In  about  fifteen  minutes  there  came  from  the 
direction  of  the  sand-hills  the  cry  of  a  screech-owl. 
Leszinksky  started,  as  the  shrill  voice  of  the  manikin 
called  from  under  the  gun-carriage  :  — 

"That's  him,  that's  Pike!  that's  the  kind  o'  a  owl 
he  is !  I  've  hearn  him  do  that  a-fore.  He  kin  go 
more  liken  a  owl  than  a  strange  owl  could,  'cep'en  he 
war  trained  to  it." 

The  young  officers  laughed ;  then,  as  King  Stan 
raised  his  hand,  all  were  silent.  Again  the  cry,  this 
time  more  distant ;  once  again  a  far-off  call ;  then,  in 
the  deep  silence  of  the  night,  only  the  insect  pulse- 
throbs  of  the  prairie  could  be  heard ;  and  they  knew 
that  as  yet  the  scout  had  found  no  foe. 

The  Osage  was  roused  from  his  sleep ;  the  horses 
were  led  around  the  little  knoll  to  the  wide-stretching 
prairie  at  the  base  of  its  eastern  acclivity ;  and  in  a  few 
moments  the  little  part}'  were  vanishing  in  the  distance, 
under  the  glimmering  light  of  twinkling  stars. 

Leaving  Pike  to  his  solitary  venture,  we  will  follow 
the  path  to  the  northeast  with  the  two  horsemen  and 
their  Osage  guide.  As  they  left  the  camp,  the  wind 
from  the  north  blew  in  gusts,  and  a  low-lying  bank  of 
clouds  came  drifting  southward. 

The  Osage  ran  in  a  loping  gait  by  the  horses,  that 
were  going  in  an  easy  gallop ;  from  time  to  time  he 
would  lift  his  hand,  and  for  a  moment  the  horsemen 
would  wait,  motionless  and  silent,  while  he  threw  himself 
on  the  ground  to  listen,  then  springing  to  his  feet,  a 
quick  exclamation  of  content  was  the  signal  for  another 
dash. 

Through  the  gathering  darkness,  and  over  a  pathless 
prairie,  the  guide  never  once  hesitated.  The  instinct 
of  the  savage  leads  through  the  trackless  plains  as  un 
erringly  as  the  compass  of  the  mariner  points  the  course 
through  the  trackless  waters. 

In  a  little  over  half  an  hour  the  party  had  reached  the 
Blue  River  divide,  and  struck  the  open  trail  that  led 


280  BAB Y  RUE. 


due  south  to  the  military  road  from  Fort  Towson  to 
Fort  Washita.  Once  started,  the  horses  could  be  trusted 
to  keep  the  trail,  although  every  star  was  now  blotted 
from  the  heavens,  and  a  keen,  biting  "norther  "was 
sweeping  down  from  the  plains. 

The  Osage  went  north  to  where  Carson  waited  in  the 
cotton  wood  grove. 

Hancock  and  Little  Miser}-  rode  southward  under  a 
beating  rain,  with  the  wind  at  their  backs,  the  thorough 
bred  going  in  a  stead}*,  long-stretching  trot  along  the 
rocky  divide,  until  the  trail  led  to  the  open  prairie,  then 
breaking  into  a  sweeping  gallop  as  he  felt  the  springy 
turf,  scarcely  feeling  the  light  weight  of  the  little  rider, 
whose  firm,  easy  touch  of  the  bridle,  never  fretting  or 
vexing  the  splendid  stallion,  left  him  un tired  after  miles 
of  distance. 

Little  Misery's  complimentary  summing  up  of  the 
roan  that  Hancock  rode  was  well  deserved.  He  had 
"  limbered  up,"  and  he  proved  that  a  scrub  ma}-  have 
grit  and  nerve  as  well  as  speed.  Neck  and  neck  he 
kept  by  the  thoroughbred  in  that  gallant  ride  through 
night  and  storm,  though  the  odds  of  weight  were  against 
him. 

At  two  o'clock  they  had  left  Camp  Refuge.  At  seven, 
when  the  gray  light  had  forced  its  way  through  the 
clouds  and  the  rain,  after  a  ride  of  fifty-five  miles,  they 
reached  the  military  road  where  their  paths  separated. 
Hancock  had  only  five  miles  more  to  go  to  Fort  Washita  : 
while  Little  Misery,  on  his  untired  steed,  had  before 
him  a  run  of  sixty  miles  to  the  post  station,  at  the  only 
settlement  between  Fort  Towson  and  Washita  not  de 
stroyed  in  the  recent  raid. 

Little  Misery  stood  up  in  his  stirrups  and  shouted  a 
parting  "  Hurray !"  to  Hancock  as  the  young  officer 
rode  westward ;  the  roan  running  at  its  best  speed  in 
this  spurt  that  was  to  take  him  to  the  winning-post. 
Hancock  gave  a  quick  glance  backward,  as  the  little 
jockey  waved  his  ragged  cap  and  put  spurs  to  the  bay, 
to  which  he  had  given  an  instant's  breathing-spell  as 
lie  watched  the  roan's  run.  From  a  thicket  of  under- 


COACOOCHEE.  28 1 


growth,  at  the  edge  of  the  trail  they  had  just  left,  there 
was  a  quick  discharge  of  shot,  a  flight  of  whizzing 
arrows  ;  and,  as  a  party  of  Indian  horsemen  broke  into 
the  military  road,  at  the  point  they  had  entered  it  from 
the  trail,  Hancock  knew  the  foe  they  had  evaded  was 
close  at  their  heels. 

Urging  his  horse  with  voice  and  spurs  to  keep  at  his 
best,  again  the  young  officer  looked  back,  and  saw  that 
he  was  free  to  ride  his  race  with  the  enemy,  without  the 
sting  of  having  to  leave  a  comrade  in  extremity  of  peril ; 
for  Little  Miseiy  was  just  turning  a  distant  bend  in  the 
road,  leaving  behind  an  already  distanced  foe. 

In  twenty  minutes  Hancock  was  at  headquarters  in 
Fort  Washita  with  his  dispatches.  Two  hours  later  he 
was  on  the  road  back  to  Camp  Refuge  with  two  com 
panies  of  mounted  infantiy  and  two  light  field-pieces. 

At  the  moment  Little  Miser}-  put  spurs  to  the  bay, 
while  still  half- turned  in  his  saddle  to  watch  Hancock, 
the  Indians  appeared.  In  their  anxiety  to  capture  the 
famous  thoroughbred  unharmed,  they  would  not  risk  an 
arrow  that  might  glance  in  a  sudden  gust ;  but  three  of 
their  best  marksmen  fired  their  rifles  at  the  jockey.  One 
ball  took  the  cap  he  was  waving  at  Hancock,  a  second 
cut  through  the  heavy  folds  of  the  dragoon's  cape  a  kind- 
hearted  trooper  had  lent  him  ;  the  third  struck  between 
the  ribs  just  below  the  uplifted  arm,  and  lodged  in  the 
chest. 

The  shot  and  the  pressure  of  the  spurs  were  simul 
taneous.  The  sudden  spring  of  the  stallion,  by  its 
reverse  shock,  prevented  Little  Misery  from  falling 
from  the  saddle.  It  threw  him  from  his  half-turned 
posture  square  into  the  seat,  with  his  arms  around  the 
stallion's  neck. 

Four  hours  later  the  thoroughbred  stopped  at  the 
stables  at  the  post-station,  where  a  party  of  dragoons 
had  just  halted.  They  unwound  the  bridle-reins  from 
over  the  head  and  under  the  arms  of  the  speechless, 
half-fainting  rider,  and  unbuckled  the  suspenders  with 
which  he  had  fastened  himself  to  the  pommel  of  the 
cavalry-saddle.  They  found  his  dispatches  in  the  breast- 


282  BAB Y  RUE. 


pocket  of  his  ragged  jacket,  dyed  with  blood.  The 
officer  of  the  command  hastily  opened  them,  and  sent 
them  by  an  express-rider  to  the  commanding  officer  at 
Fort  Towson. 

The  beating  rain  and  the  chill  of  the  "  norther"  had 
staunched  the  bleeding  wound.  Nature's  styptics  might 
have  saved  him.  The  kindly  meant  efforts  at  restora 
tion  destroyed  Little  Misery's  last  chance.  They  carried 
him  into  a  warm  room  and  gave  him  stimulants.  As  he 
recovered  consciousness,  the  bleeding  commenced  afresh. 
There  was  no  surgeon  at  the  post  or  with  the  dragoons, 
so,  with  all  the  bandages  they  could  invent,  the  hemor 
rhage  continued.  Between  these  efforts  at  help  he  told 
his  stor}*. 

' '  When  the  damned  redskin  hit  me  I  knowed  I  was 
done  fur,  but  I  jes'  shut  my  teeth  an'  swore  I  'd  come 
through  an'  holp  git  our  fellers  outen  thar  clutches. 
.  .  .  The  thoroughbred  was  a-goin'  in  a  dead  run,  so  it 
was  most  like  a-layin'  in  a  cradle.  You  see  a  saddle 's 

about  the  on'y  one  ever  I  knowed Somehow  I  got 

off  my  gallusses,  an'  fastened  my  monkey  to  the  pommel 

1  swore  a  heap  last  night,  'bout  ridin'  such  a  big 

race  with  a  cavalry-saddle ;  but  the  Judge  who  is  up  thar  at 
the  Grand  Stand  knowed  what  'ud  be  most  apt  to  bring 
me  through,  or  he  would  n't  a  let  me  rid  it  with  them  big 

stakes  up Tell  the  boys  out  thar  in  that  devil's  pit, 

that  the  game  buzzard's  had  his  last  fly,  but  he  brung 

'em  help I'm  glad  it 's  me  was  hit 1  ain't  much 

'count  and  the  leftenant  got  off  scot  free  — —  Tell  him 

good  bye we  had  a  bully  race  and  we  won  what 

we  was  entered  fur Hurra}*  for  old  Missuory  !  she 

breeds  the  fryers."  Then  a  few  broken  efforts  at  speech, 
a  few  tired  sighs,  and  the  brave  little  rider  was  at  the 
Grand  Stand. 

His  last  sentences  had  come  in  broken  gasps,  but 
they  were  the  epitome  of  his  life,  —  rollicking,  reckless, 
a  rough,  uncouth  correlative  of  mirth  and  pluck.  I 
give  the  words  for  what  they  are  worth.  They  may 
teach  the  righteous  to  love  a  sinner  and  to  believe  in  the 
breadth  of  God's  mercy,  the  greatness  of  the  Eternal 


COACOOCHEE.  283 


Econom}*  that  ' '  gathereth  the  fragments  that  nothing 
may  be  lost." 

His  face  was  pallid  and  pinched.  Life  had  dealt 
hardly  with  him  ;  and  death  brought  out  the  lines  that 
poverty  and  ignorance  and  the  crimes  of  his  progenitors 
had  traced.  The  evil  that  died  with  him  was  of  the 
world's  teaching.  The  good  that  was  within  him  led 
him  through  the  gate  of  death  into  the  presence  of  the 
Teacher  who  said,  "  Greater  love  hath  no  man  than 
this,  that  a  man  lay  down  his  life  for  his  friends." 


284  BABY  RUE. 


CHAPTER  XXXIII. 

OVER  the  mountains, 

And  over  the  waves  ; 
Under  the  fountains, 

And  under  the  graves, 

Under  floods  that  are  deepest, 

Which  Neptune  obey, 
Over  rocks  that  are  steepest, 

Love  will  find  out  the  way. 

OLD  SONG. 

TWO  weeks  later  in  our  history  Leszinksky  and 
Carson,  accompanied  by  Lo-loch-to-hoo-la  and  two 
Pawnee  warriors,  in  the  brightest  of  bright  winter  morn 
ings,  were  climbing  the  winding  path  up  the  spur  of 
the  ridge  that  led  around  the  cascade  to  the  Valley  of 
the  Three  Mountains.  Leszinksky  walked  slowly  be 
side  the  Pawnee  chief,  whose  slight  lameness  seemed  a 
greater  disadvantage,than  it  really  was  to  the  vigorous, 
agile  Indian.  As  the  subject  of  their  conversation  will 
come  to  our  knowledge  further  down  the  current  of  this 
veritable  history,  we  will  borrow  "  Monsieur  Balzac's 
cane,"  and  invisibly  keep  step  with  Carson  as  with  the 
two  warriors  he  hastened  up  the  mountain  path  through 
the  rocky  defile  of  the  narrow  canon,  beside  the  little 
river,  that  rushed  down  to  its  fall  over  the  cascade  from 
the  high-lifted  fairy  valley. 

His  face  glowing  from  the  quick  walk  in  the  sharp, 
wintiy  air,  and  his  heart  equally  aglow  with  hope  and 
love,  Carson  sprang  lightly  up  the  gentle  incline  of  the 
pebbly  path,  that  suddenly  ended  in  the  rice-field  from 
which  the  river  flowed  into  the  canon. 

For  two  reasons,  Carson  was  a  willing  avant  courier. 


COACOOCHEE.  285 


To  do  him  full  justice  we  place  first  his  wish  to  save 
Margaret  the  shock  of  surprise  at  her  husband's  corning 
(even  joy  in  her  precarious  health  might  be  a  danger)  ; 
the  after  consideration,  but  one  that  drew  as  strongly, 
was  his  pardonable  haste  to  see  again  the  recently  elect 
ed  queen  of  his  heart. 

The}-oung  dragoon,  who  usually  viewed  hill  and  valley 
through  the  lens  of  practical  use,  as  obstruction  or  ad 
vantage  to  progress,  was,  at  the  precise  moment  of  his 
entrance  into  the  valley,  so  enrapt  with  the  mists  of 
love's  imaginings  that  he  was  for  a  moment  caught  by 
the  charm  of  the  picturesque  and  romantic  landscape 
Nature  had  hidden  high  up  in  the  bosom  of  the  hills. 
But  sympathy  with  the  inanimate  was  too  new  and 
slight  a  sensation  to  hold  Carson'  s  thought,  past  that 
one  second,  from  the  longing  desire  to  look  upon  a  love 
liness  more  attractive  and  more  responsive  to  his  admi 
ration. 

His  first  step  out  of  the  abstraction  was  into  the 
positive.  A  little  rill  that  ran  into  broken  falls  down  a 
shelving  ledge  from  the  cleft  corner  of  the  canon,  from 
which  spiral  rings  and  shadow}'  puffs  of  vapor  ascended, 
was  a  more  curious  attraction  to  the  matter-of-fact  sol 
dier  than  mere  beauty  of  scene.  Ascending  the  easy 
steps  of  the  shelving  ledge,  he  reached  a  broad  plateau 
of  rock,  where  a  tiny  Indian  child  was  busily  gathering 
shiny  bits  of  broken  stone.  At  the  sound  of  his  step 
the  child  turned,  and  the  golden  curls  of  Baby  Rue 
flashed  in  the  sunlight.  With  a  glad  shout  she  sprang 
into  his  outstretched  arms  :  — 
h  "  My  Billy  !  My  Billy  Tarson  !  " 

In  a  moment  she  remembered  there  was  a  person 
near  by  who  was  dear  to  her  elfin  Majesty;  so  she 
called,  "  Laha  !  Come,  Laha,  come  !  "  Carson  looked 
around.  Standing  near  where  the  spring  issued  from 
a  cleft  in  the  rock  was  Alaha-chayna.  The  deep 
blush  that  dyed  the  half-averted  face  of  the  Indian 
maiden,  the  downcast  eyes,  and  the  slight  trembling 
of  the  bending,  willowy  figure,  would  have  betted 
her  feelings  to  a  more  confident  lover.  The  reader  will 


286  BABY  RUE, 


remember  that  heretofore  our  blunt  soldier  had  learned 
only  Love's  losses.  In  his  ignorance,  he  thought  these 
signal-flags  of  surrender  meant  repulse.  But  he  had  a 
stout  heart ;  so,  seeing  no  obstacle  to  this  love  in  the 
prior  right  of  a  comrade,  he  determined  to  tempt  fate  to 
its  utmost.  He  took  into  quick  account  auxiliaries  and 
embarrassments  :  the  last  should  be  first,  for  they  were 
worrying  him  in  the  shape  of  the  two  Pawnee  warriors 
who  were  gravely  regarding  him  from  the  foot  of  the 
ledge.  Hoping  they  had  not  seen  the  maiden,  in  her 
sheltered  place  behind  the  jutting  ledge,  he  called  to 
them  in  the  few  words  he  knew  of  the  Comanche  tongue 
to  go  on  up  to  the  chief's  lodge  and  announce  the  com 
ing  of  Lo-loch-to-hoo-la  and  the  white  officers,  adding 
with  word  and  gesture  that  he  would  wait  here  with  the 
child  for  her  father. 

The  Indians  gave  mute  responsive  signs  and  walked 
on  up  the  valley.  It  was  well ;  for  our  imperious  little 
princess  had  slipped  from  Carson's  arms  to  enforce 
obedience  to  her  command.  Carson  followed  her  across 
the  wide  plateau,  giving  one  last  backward  look  to 
assure  himself  of  the  fact  that  he  was  out  of  view  of  the 
warriors,  who  were  rapidly  crossing  the  rice-fields  to  the 
open  path  that  led  through  the  wood.  As  he  reached 
Alaha-chayna  and  his  baby  ally  there  was  a  more  alarm 
ing  order : — 

"  Tiss  my  Billy,  Laha !     Tiss  my  Billy  Tarson." 

Seeing  she  was  not  obeyed  to  the  letter,  as  the 
maiden  hesitatingly  lifted  her  drooping  face  and  placed 
her  little  hand  in  Carson's  expectant  palm,  the  enfant 
terrible  shouted  in  a  shrill,  insistant  key,  "Tiss  him, 
I  tell  you :  tiss  him,  Laha !  Don't  you  hear  me  tell 
you?" 

His  embarrassment  increasing  with  every  syllable 
shrieked  by  the  little  tyrant,  thinking  to  quiet  her  with 
a  half  obedience,  Carson  bent  over  the  young  girl's  hand 
and  pressed  it  to  his  lips.  It  is  doubtful  if  Rue  would 
have  been  content  with  the  compromise  had  not  her  at 
tention  been  suddenly  attracted  to  a  little  bird,  that  lit 
on  a  jagged  point  of  rock  near  her  collected  treasures. 


COACOOCHEE.  28? 


Distrusting  its  intentions,  she  ran  to  guard  her  shining 
riches,  and  for  a  few  brief  moments  was  busy  looking  over 
the  heap  to  see  if  she  had  been  robbed.  Possibly,  if 
she  had  watched  Carson  she  would  have  cared  less  for 
her  property,  in  the  content  given  by  his  perfect  obed 
ience. 

Strange  freak  of  human  nature  !  Now  that  he  could 
easily  have  commenced  a  decorous  and  eminently  proper 
and  edifying  conversation,  the  young  lover  recklessly 
threw  away  the  opportunity  for  mutual  improvement 
given  by  Rue's  last  vagary  and  did  the  very  thing  the 
insistant  child  had  urged.  It  was  all  wrong ;  but  as  a 
truthful  historian  I  dare  not  withhold  the  fact.  There 
is  a  strange  temptation  in  scarlet  lips  when  long,  curling 
lashes  droop  over  veiled  eyes  that  dare  not  meet  the 
bold  glance  of  a  wooer.  And  so,  though  her  chee*ks 
were  aflame,  he  kissed  her. 

Poets  and  romancers  linger  over  Love's  first  kiss,  — 
and  for  that  matter,  so  did  Carson.  But  1,  being  only 
a  relator  of  absolute  history,  am  glad  the  telling  of  it  is 
over.  To  my  young  readers  it  may  seem  an  eas}7  thing 
to  do,  — the  mere  relating  of  a  trifling  event  in  a  simple 
narrative.  Well,  let  any  self-confident  person  put  him 
self  in  my  place,  and  he  will  find  there  are  difficulties  in 
the  situation.  An  historian  is  not  necessarily  estopped 
from  "being  a  philosopher  and  a  moralist.  Facts  are 
sometimes  causes:  a  cause  is  "that  which  produces  an 
effect."  Now,  this  particular  fact  had  a  sequence  or  order 
of  following.  In  truth,  I  might  say  it  had  a  series.  I 
like  to  be  exact,  so  I  will  say  at  once,  and  have  done 
with  it,  that  it  had  a  succession  of  sequences.  Finding 
that,  for  some  occult  reason  (the  girl  must  have  been 
bewitched) ,  she  did  not  or  could  not  resist,  or  even  raise 
those  drooping  e}relids,  Carson  kissed  her  again.  Now, 
having  accomplished  my  task  not  only  as  a  truthful  his 
torian,  but  as  philosopher,  the  moralist  in  me  utterly 
refuses  to  go  any  further  in  this  investigation  the  pub 
licity  of  which  can  do  no  good  in  the  way  of  warning. 
It  is  enough  that  he  kissed  her  twice  before  I  turned 
away,  —  refusing  to  see. 


288  BAB Y  RUE. 


The  process  might  have  been  repeated  after  this  dis 
creet  historian  turned  his  back,  but  for  Baby  Rue. 
Having  driven  away  the  predatory  bird  and  reviewed 
her  possessions,  the  young  "voyvoda"  bethought  her 
self  of  her  two  slaves. 

Then  was  demonstrated  a  remarkable  problem,  and 
one  worth3r  of  the  stud}'  of  a  physicist,  i.e.  how  instan 
taneous  is  the  reaction  of  oscillatory  bodies,  if  the  cir 
cumference  in  which  their  attraction  is  perceptible  is 
disturbed  by  the  approach  of  any  foreign  agent.  Leav 
ing  this  for  the  investigation  of  the  learned,  the  historian 
will  resume  his  task,  and  go  on  with  his  register  of 
events. 

The  moment  the  imperious  baby  claimed  their  atten 
tion,  with  a  most  wonderful  unanimity,  Carson  and 
Alaha-chayna  set  themselves  to  instant  obedience  to  her 
slightest  behest,  although  her  wishes  were  as  changeful 
as  a  storm-tossed  leaf. 

Between  the  services  called  for,  Carson  did  manage 
to  make  certain  declarations  and  ask  certain  questions  ; 
and  though  the  answers  never  seemed  sufficientl}'  ex 
plicit  (to  judge  from  the  insistance  with  which  the  lover 
asked  for  minute  repetitions),  there  were  frequent  seiz 
ures  of  a  little  hand  in  giving  or  taking  some  of  the 
baby's  treasures  that  emphasized  his  thanks  for  certain 
replies,  that  would  have  been  inaudible  to  this  historian 
had  he  even  tried  to  listen.  As  all  of  this  needed  a 
management,  a  delicate  diplomac}T,  heretofore  untried 
by  the  blunt  soldier,  it  required  time.  Yet  the  two 
principals  in  this  little  melodrama  were  so  unconscious 
of  the  flight  of  minutes,  that  when  they  did  take  cogni 
zance  of  the  world  beyond  that  little  plateau,  they  were 
astonished  to  see  within  easy  call  two  canoes,  that  must 
have  crossed  the  little  lake,  and  come  the  seven  miles 
of  length  of  the  narrow  river,  since  the  arrival  of  the 
Pawnees  at  the  settlement  at  the  head  of  the  valle}-. 
Margaret,  Randall,  and  Coacoochee  were  in  the  first 
canoe ;  in  the  second  were  Bob  Stearns  and  Oscar. 
The  discovery  of  their  approach  was  due  to  the  roving 
eyes  of  little  Rue.  Carson  had  just  told  her  of  the 


COACOOCHEE.  289 


speedy  coming  of  her  father ;  and  it  had  immediately 
required  all  of  his  skill,  assisted  by  the  gentle  persuasion 
of  the  Indian  maiden,  to  keep  her  from  a  headlong  race 
down  the  stretching  shelves  of  the  plateau.  Her  impa 
tience  was  beginning  to  test  the  temper  of  the  lover, 
whose  constant  attention  she  claimed,  when  he  would 
so  much  rather  have  continued  a  conversation,  for  which 
she  had  hitherto  been  the  convenient  pretext.  All  of 
the  loose  ti*easui-es  of  Carson,  all  of  the  detachable  orna 
ments  of  Alaha-chayna,  had  been  offered  in  a  vain  effort 
to  quiet  the  uneasy  little  despot.  At  the  risk  of  his 
own  63'es,  and  her  fingers,  Carson  finally  gave  her  his 
hunting-knife,  which  she  had  deigned  to  demand,  hoping 
for  one  moment  of  freedom  as  she  clashed  it  back  and 
forth  in  the  scabbard.  Suddenly  she  threw  aside  the 
coveted  plaything  and  with  a  quick  spring  escaped  from 
Alaha-chayna's  arms,  and  then  rushed  to  the  edge  of 
the  rock,  where  she  woke  the  echoes  of  the  canon  with 
the  call :  — 

"Mamma!     Mamma!     Mamma!" 

In  an  effort  to  escape  Carson,  who  had  hastily  followed 
her,  she  ran  across  the  plateau  to  where  it  gave  a  view 
of  the  entrance  to  the  canon  ;  then,  dancing  about  in  an 
ecstasv  of  joy,  she  changed  the  shout  to :  — 

"Papa!     Papa!" 

Carson  caught  her  as  she  started  down  the  shelving 
ledge  to  meet  King  Stan,  who,  with  the  Pawnee  chief, 
was  just  crossing  the  steaming  rill  of  the  hot  spring  at 
the  entrance  into  the  valley. 

A  minute  later  Leszinksky  clasped  in  his  arms  his 
wife,  and  the  child  of  whose  restoration  he  had  at  one 
time  almost  despaired. 

After  greetings  had  been  exchanged,  and  broken  bits 
of  news  told,  the  party  separated  into  little  groups  ac 
cording  to  the  manner  in  which  they  were  to  go  up  the 
valley. 

The  first  departure  was  a  beautiful,  fairy-like  birchen 
canoe,  that  suddenly  shot  out  of  its  hiding-place  in  the 
reeds ;  and  with  a  few  flashing  strokes  of  the  paddle 
Alaha-chayna  was  leading  the  little  flotilla  in  the  race  up 


2QO  BABY  RUE. 

the  river.  As  the  graceful,  erect  figure  vanished  in  a 
curve  of  the  narrow  stream,  the  two  Indian  chiefs  were 
standing  in  the  larger  canoes,  waiting  for  a  distribution 
of  the  passengers. 

Randall  and  Carson,  after  assisting  Margaret  to  a 
seat  in  the  canoe  with  Coacoochee,  and  waiting  to  see 
Leszinksky  embarked  with  Rue  and  Lo-loch-to-hoo-la, 
walked  on  up  the  meadow-path,  closely  followed  by  Bob 
Stearns  and  Oscar,  who  were  anxious  to  hear  the  news 
Carson  had  to  tell. 

The  story  was  more  uneventful  than  the  listeners  ex 
pected.  The  reinforcements  had  been  gathered  in  so 
quickly  and  in  such  force  that  the  Indians  were  over 
awed.  There  had  been  only  a  slight  skirmish  at  the 
ford  of  the  Washita,  and  the  crossing  had  been  effected, 
after  shelling  the  woods,  without  loss.  In  view  of  the 
immediate  movement  of  at  least  half  of  the  force  on  the 
Arkansas  frontier  to  Texas,  any  further  advance  into 
the  Comanche  country  had  been  thought  unadvisable. 
Moreover,  Lo-loch-to-hoo-la's  voluntary  offer  to  give  up 
the  child  made  further  invasion  needless,  unless  it  was 
intended  to  punish  the  Comanches  for  the  raid,  in  which 
it  could  not  be  proven  that  they  had  been  active  assis 
tants. 

Then  Randall  asked,  "  Where  is  the  command?" 
"  The  companies  from  the  lower  forts  have  gone  back 
to  their  quarters.  The  volunteers  are  in  a  rage  and 
likely  to  do  mischief.  The  general  feared  they  might,  in 
their  present  temper,  attack  inoffensive  hunting-parties, 
or  even  the  Seminole  villages,  as  the}-  regard  the  Semi- 
noles  as  allies  of  the  Pawnees  ;  and  so,  to  prevent  further 
difficulty,  part  of  our  regiment  is  temporarily  encamped 
on  the  Canadian  at  the  mouth  of  Little  River ;  and  our 
scouting  parties  are  watching  until  the  volunteers  are 
disbanded." 

"  Where  did  you  meet  Lo-loch-to-hoo-la?" 
"  At  the  cottonwood  grove.    The  morning  I  left  there 
he  told  me  how  and  where  to  leave  signals  if  Leszink 
sky  decided  to  come  for  Mrs.  Leszinksky  and  Rue.     I 
pledged  my  word  to  Coacoochee  for  Stan  and  myself, 


COACOOCHEE.  291 


that  we  would  never  use  or  reveal,  without  his  permis 
sion,  the  pass  to  the  valley  if  we  were  brought  here."  . 

There  was  more  talk  of  the  meeting  with  Lo-loch-to- 
hoo-la,  and  then,  as  Bob  and  Oscar  walked  ahead,  Ran 
dall  said :  — 

' '  I  don't  wonder  that  you  thought  it  needful  to  come 
for  our  party.  We  might  have  made  the  trip  in  safety 
under  the  guidance  and  guard  of  the  Seminoles,  as  we 
did  in  coming.  But  possibly  a  certain  lovely  maiden 
would  have  remained  in  this  vale  of  Eden." 

Carson  turned  hastil}'.  Seeing  that  Bob  and  Oscar 
had  gone  on  to  the  lake  and  were  out  of  hearing,  he 
answered :  — 

"  If  Mrs.  Leszinksky  and  Rue  had  been  safe  at 
Bouie's  Hill,  I  would  have  come  to  see  Coacoochee's 
daughter.  This  morning  I  asked  her  to  be  my  wife, 
and  she  has  promised  her  consent  if  I  can  win  her  fa 
ther's.  Now,  Randall,  you  understand  I  want  no  more 
damned  nonsense." 

"  Don't  be  a  fool,  Carson." 

The  young  dragoon  faced  the  doctor  with  such  a  red 
face  and  angry  look  that  Randall  laughed  outright, 
but,  seeing  the  rising  temper  he  controlled  himself,  and 
added, — 

"  You  would  be  a  fool  if  you  thought  I  did  not  thor 
oughly  respect  and  esteem  the  lovely  girl  whose  only 
weakness,  as  far  as  I  can  judge,  is  this  promise  to  3*011. 
This  is  better  luck  than  j-ou  deserve,  youngster.  But 
with  all  my  heart  I  congratulate  j*ou,  and  if  in  any  way 
I  can  aid  3~ou,  count  on  my  best.  Does  King  Stan 
know  of  3'our  success  ?  " 

"  Yes.  I  told  him  of  her,  and  how  much  I  cared  for 
her,  before  we  came.  As  he  started  up  the  river  just 
now,  I  told  him  it  was  all  right." 

Randall  laughed  pleasantly,  and  Carson,  whose  tem 
per  had  vanished,  looked  delighted,  until  the  doctor 
said  :  — 

"But  it  isn't  all  right;  and  if  3*ou  are  not  a  more 
skilful  diplomatist  than  most  of  our  thick-headed  dra 
goons,  it  will  be  all  wrong.  Coacoochee  is  sufficiently 


2Q2  BABY  RUE. 


grateful  to  do  you  any  ordinary  kindness  as  between 
man  and  man  ;  but  his  hatred  to  the  whites  is  only 
glossed  over  with  a  few  likings.  I  think  he  would  as 
soon  see  his  daughter  dead  as  the  wife  of  one  of  the 
race  he  has  never  forgiven  for  exiling  him  to  these 
wilds." 

Carson  exclaimed  in  a  resolute,  angry  tone,  "If  he 
refuses  me,  I  will  run  away  with  his  daughter." 

"  I  do  not  believe  }rou  would,  Carson.  You  are  here 
as  Coacoochee's  trusted  guest,  —  trusted  with  the  secret 
of  his  last  place  of  refuge.  I  do  not  think  you  would 
tarnish  your  own  honor  or  tempt  the  woman  }-ou  love 
to  a  disobedience  that  would  come  near  breaking  the 
heart  of  this  grand  savage." 

"Damn  his  grandeur!  I  love  his  daughter  better 
than  he  does." 

"  Then  you  will  only  try  to  win  her  as  an  honest  man 
and  a  chivalrous  soldier  should.  More  than  any  one 
else,  you  are  bound  to  respect  her  faith  to  her  father." 

"See  here,  Randall;  I  can  stand  that  sort  of  thing 
from  Stan,  for  his  life  is  as  pure  as  a  saint's,  and  his 
religion  goes  into  every  act  of  his  life  ;  but,  confound  it, 
I  won't  stand  schooling  from  a  fellow  who  is  n't  a  bit 
better  than  the  rest  of  us  sinners,  —  in  fact,  who  has  n't 
as  good  a  chance  hereafter ;  for  you  don't  even  believe 
in  hell." 

Randall's  laugh  was  tantalizing  as  he  answered : 
"Thatwaloss.  But  this  happens  not  be  a  question 
of  theology.  It  is  simply  a  discussion  of  what  a  gentle 
man  may  do,  if  he  would  not  soil  his  honor." 

Here  Carson's  oaths  came  so  much  faster  than  his 
arguments  that  your  historian  prefers  to  skip  the  con 
versation  and  go- on  to  where  Bob  and  Oscar  were  wait 
ing  to  ferry  Carson  and  Randall  over  the  lake  to  the 
little  village  that  nestled  close  to  the  opposite  shore, 
under  the  shelter  of  the  shelving  upland  meadows,  where 
were  the  comfortable  log-houses  of  the  chief  and  his 
family. 

The  feriyboat,  made  of  untanned  buffalo-skins, 
stretched  over  ribs  of  split  oak-saplings,  was  light  and 


COACOOCHEE.  293 


strong.  Bob  and  Oscar  had  unfastened  it  from  its 
moorings,  and,  seated  in  it,  were  waiting  the  arrival  of 
the  two  passengers,  who  were  delayed  by  frequent 
pauses  in  their  walk  through  the  wood,  when  the  inter 
est  or  emphasis  of  the  conversation  required  the  aid  of 
look  and  gesture. 

The  sight  of  Bob  at  his  ease  in  the  boat,  and  provided 
with  a  listener,  assured  your  historian  that  the  scout  was 
talking  long  before  sound  could  verify  sight. 

As  this  conversation  (if  monologue  can  be  called  con 
versation)  fills  a  blank  in  our  history,  I  will  give  it  as  I 
heard  it :  — 

"  Now,  the  more  I  think  on  it,  the  surer  I  am,  Coa- 
coochee  meant  to  euchre  the  Big  Chief  in  that  matter  of 
Sultan  and  me  and  you.  He  jest  thought  Louis  Pacheco, 
who  I  'm  free  to  say 's  as  much  of  a  gentleman  as  a  mu 
latto  could  be,  would  rope  you  into  the  traces  with  the 
black  Injuns ;  and  that  the  less  chance  I  had  to  get 
back  with  Sultan  to  our  leftenant,  the  better  chance 
he  had  o'  keeping  the  Pawnee  chief  from  ever  makin' 
friends  for  good  with  our  folks.  Now,  when  I  could  n't 
nohow  make  3*011  understand,  but  you  jest  went  and 
left  me,  and  me  bad  with  the  manner-poker  (mania  a 
potu),  why,  I  jest  had  to  cave.  I  tell  you  that  last 
sight  I  had  o'  that  monstrous  cat  would  a-fetched 
Julius  Caesar,  and  a-wilted  him.  I  did  n't  know  nuthin', 
so  be  and  you  don't  count  half-seein'  things  in  a  sort  o' 
blind  way,  until  I  waked  up  the  next  mornin'  in  that 
Comanche  lodge,  tied  fast.  It  mought  a-been,  like  they 
said  arterwards,  to  keep  me  from  a-gettin'  hurt ;  but  it 
looked  mighty  like  I  was  a  prisoner,  though  I  'm  free  to 
say  the  black  drink  that  old  squaw  brung  me  did  me  a 
power  o'  good.  It  cl'ared  m}-  head  and  let  me  sleep  in 
a  way  no  reg'lar  surgeon  ever  did.  I  wish  Doctor  Ran 
dall  knowed  what  that  physic  was  made  on  ;  it 's  time 
some  o'  the  reg'lars  had  1'arnt  somethin'  'bout  curin' 
the  grip  whiskey  gets  of  a  poor  devil  who  's  a  tryin'  to 
stop  and  cau't.  Why,  you  see,  if  I  got  a  pull  at  a  bot 
tle  now,  I  couldn't  nohow  let  it  go  by  me,  now  my 
promise  is  up  and  the  little  cap'n  res-cw-erf." 


294  BABY  RUE. 


"  Don't,  Marse  Bob  ;  don't  try  that  no  mo' ;  't  allus 
gets  you  down,  sir." 

' l  How  the  devil  am  I  to  try  it  withouten  any  liquor  ?  " 

Just  then  Randall  and  Carson  reached  the  lake,  and 
the  question  remained  forever  unanswered. 

The  Seminoles  had  profited  by  their  residence  in  the 
Cherokee  country.  The  dinner,  given  to  our  party  of 
friends  in  the  comfortable  log-house  that  had  been  Mar 
garet's  since  her  arrival  in  the  valle}r,  was  as  perfect  in 
the  manner  of  service,  as  excellent  in  qualit}7  and  vari 
ety  of  fish,  game,  fruit,  and  vegetables,  as,  at  that  time, 
could  have  been  expected  in  the  home  of  the  wealthiest 
settler. 

Alaha-chayna  had  been  constantly  with  Margaret  and 
Baby  Rue ;  but  with  instinctive  courtesy  the  Indians 
now  left  the  so  recently  reunited  family  to  the  freedom 
of  unrestrained  conversation  with  their  friends.  After 
dinner  the  elfin  princess,  missing  some  of  her  customary 
courtiers,  imperiously  demanded  to  be  taken  to  Alaha- 
chayna.  Notwithstanding  a  glance  from  Randall,  that 
dyed  his  face  several  shades  deeper  than  his  tawny 
locks,  Carson  immediately  rose  to  accompany  the  wilful 
child. 

In  the  quiet  of  Rue's  absence,  Randall  and  Leszink- 
sky  discussed  the  chances  for  King  Stan's  success  in  the 
mission  entrusted  to  him  by  General  Arbuckle. 

Once  more  the  tribes  were  to  be  invited  to  a  council. 
The  inducement  held  out  to  the  Seminole  chief  was  the 
final  settlement  of  the  rights  of  the  so-called  Black  Indi 
ans,  while  the  alternative  of  peace  or  war  was  to  be 
offered  to  the  Pawnees. 

Then  Leszinksky  told  the  story  of  Lo-loch-to-hoo-la. 
It  was  only  another  black  page  in  the  record  of  Indian 
agents.  A  tribe  cheated  and  despoiled  ;  families  gath 
ered  into  a  reservation  far  from  the  hunting-grounds, 
and  then  left  to  starve,  while  pale  vampires  grew  rich 
on  the  very  life-blood  of  Indian  women  and  children. 
Back  of  all  this  was  a  more  terrible  shadow,  —  a  broken 
and  landless  nation,  defrauded  through  the  treaties 
that  had  been  forced  upon  a  helpless  people  or  signed 


COACOOCHEE.  295 


by  confiding,  unlettered  chiefs,  calling  in  vain  to  the 
government  that  had  robbed  its  tribes  of  their  lands  for 
the  miserable  pittance  that  had  been  promised  for  their 
bare  sustenance. 

Just  here,  that  the  feeling  of  an  honest  soldier  may 
reach  the  people,  who  should  (and  I  trust  yet  will) 
sweep  this  iniquit}7  from  the  land,  I  give  the  last  of 
the  story  in  Leszinksky's  words. 

"When,  at  the  close  of  the  simple  record  of  his 
wrongs,  the  landless  chief  and  childless  father  looked 
into  my  e}-es,  and  asked,  '  My  brother,  is  this  just?  Is 
the  white  man  the  owner  of  the  earth  ?  I  loved  the  land 
upon  which  I  was  born  ;  my  bod}'  is  made  of  its  sands. 
The  Great  Spirit  gave  me  eyes  to  see  it.  The  sun 
shines  to  warm  it,, the  rain  falls  to  fertilize  it,  the  moon 
brings  back  to  it  the  spirits  of  our  people.  Yet  I  can 
not  live  upon  it  because  the  great  chief  of  the  whites 
has  seen  that  it  was  good,  and  has  taken  it  for  his 
children.'  I  was  speechless  through  shame.  Every 
word  was  true.  Every  word  cut  through  the  sophisms 
of  the  spoilers.  Unless  we  change  our  entire  Indian 
policy  we  will,  as  we  deserve,  stand  before  the  world 
dishonored  through  the  acts  of  dishonest  agents  and 
by  the  evidence  of  broken  treaties." 

As  Leszinksky  ceased  speaking,  Randall  walked 
about  uneasil}*.  Margaret's  e}Tes  flashed  through  tears. 
At  last  Randall  said  :  — 

"•  Then  you  can  do  nothing  with  Lo-loch-to-hoo-la. 
The  Pawnee  will  not  go  to  the  council  ?  " 

"  Yes ;  he  has  promised  for  my  sake,  and  for  Rue's 
sake,  and  because  of  the  kindness  you  and  Margaret 
showed  his  wife,  that  he  will  be  friends  with  the  people 
that  left  him  nothing." 

There  was  a  tenderness  in  the  tone,  a  simple  loving- 
ness,  that  went  from  the  speaker's  heart  to  the  hearts  of 
his  listeners.  Randall  pulled  his  hat  over  his  eyes,  and 
walked  out  in  the  meadow.  Margaret,  weeping  on  her 
husband's  breast,  sobbed  out  a  request  that  ruled  the 
current  of  her  child's  life. 

"  We  will  love  him,  Stan  ;  he  shall  find  a  home  with 


296  BABY  RUE. 


us.  Promise  me  that  if  I  should  not  live,  —  I  am  not 
strong  as  I  was  in  the  old  da3~s,  and  I  may  not  stay 
with  you  long,  —  so  you  will  promise  me  that  this  brave, 
simple  Indian,  who  loves  our  child  as  his  own,  shall  be 
always  sure  of  a  place  b}-  your  hearth,  and  a  welcome 
from  the  little  child  he  saved  and  gave  back  to  me. 
You  must  never  send  Rue  away  where  he  cannot  see 
her." 

Struck  to  the  heart  by  the  shadow  of  this  possible 
loss,  King  Stan  promised. 

The  next  morning  there  was  a  slight  fall  of  snow, 
and,  as  the  clouds  continued  to  gather,  the  departure  of 
the  visitors  was  delayed.  In  fact,  all  were  willing  to 
prolong  their  stay.  Leszinksky  was  anxious  to  shield 
his  wife  from  exposure  to  the  threatening  storm,  and 
was  glad  of  an  opportunit}'  to  know  more  intimatel}-  the 
Seminole  chief.  Moreover,  all  of  the  part}-  considered 
Carson,  as  all  were  desirous  his  wooing  should  be  suc 
cessful.  The  young  cavalryman  was  in  high  spirits. 
Having  won  where  he  most  feared  repulse,  he  never 
seemed  to  think  of  the  serious  obstacles  yet  to  be  over 
come.  His  hopefulness  infected  the  others ;  even  the 
gentle  Alaha-cha}-na  smiled  gayly  at  his  boyish  romps 
with  Rue,  for  whom  his  affection  overflowed,  for  to  her 
capture  he  owed  his  present  happiness.  Besides  he  had 
good  reason  for  hopefulness,  for  he  knew  his  interests 
were  in  able  hands. 

Randall  had  won  a  firm  place  in  the  chiefs  regard 
from  the  first  moment  of  their  meeting ;  and  now  was 
added  the  quality  of  thankfulness.  The  week  before 
Leszinksky's  and  Carson's  arrival,  Coacoochee's  first 
son  was  born,  and  Randall's  skill  had  saved  the  child's 
life,  the  Indian  women  (the  only  accoucheurs  of  the 
tribe)  having  hopelessly  given  up  all  effort  to  resus 
citate  the  apparently  lifeless  infant.  After  saving  the 
child,  his  services  had  been  of  great  benefit  to  the 
mother.  Here,  too,  Margaret  would  be  an  efficient  ally, 
as  the  warmest  friendship  already  existed  between  Rue's 
mother  and  the  kind-hearted,  loving  daughter  of  Osceola, 


COACOOCHEE.  297 


who  had  cared  for  our  little  princess  when  ill  with  the 
slight  malarial  fever  that  had  followed  her  night's  ex 
posure  upon  the  Canadian  River. 

The  day  after  Carson's  arrival,  Margaret  spent  the 
morning  with  Che-cho-ter  l ;  and,  between  minute  in 
spections  of  the  little,  mummy-like  baby  wrapped  in 
swaddling  clothes,  the  love-tale  was  told,  —  a  tale  to 
which  few  women  are  insensible  ;  but  one  especially  in 
teresting  to  two  young  mothers  who  were  happily  wed 
ded.  Che-cho-ter's  influence  in  favor  of  the  lover  of  her 
step-daughter  was  promised,  and  none  could  be  greater 
with  Coacoochee.  For  to  his  affection  for  his  wife  add 
his  almost  passionate  regard  for  the  memory  of  the  high- 
souled  warrior,  her  father,  and  you  will  see  that  the  par 
tisan  Margaret  had  won  in  the  chiefs  household  was  the 
most  valuable  all}*  Carson  could  count. 

The  third  night,  when  the  storm  had  passed,  leaving 
the  valley  shrouded  in  snow,  beside  the  fire,  where  the 
yellow  glow  of  burning  pine  reflected  its  rich  light  and 
>iitfused  its  pleasant  resinous  odour,  a  happy,  hopeful 
'party,  talked  over  Carson's  chances.  Even  Randall, 
who  had  at  first  been  doubtful  of  success,  seemed  con 
fident  of  the  chiefs  final  surrender. 

There  was  a  heavy  knock  on  the  door,  and  into  this 
pleasant  gathering,  this  joyful  reunion  of  intimate 
friends,  came  the  two  Indian  chiefs.  Lo-loch-to-hoo-la 
walked  to  where  Margaret  sat  beside  her  husband,  in 
whose  arms  Rue  had  fallen  asleep,  while  Coacoochee 
stood  in  the  centre  of  the  room,  looking  frowningly 
around  the  little  circle.  Carson  and  Randall  both  arose 
as  the  door  opened.  Surprise  reached  its  height  as 
Bob  and  Oscar  hurriedly  entered. 

Coacoochee  said,  "  Thieving  Creeks  and  white  slave- 
hunters  have  been  to  the  Seminole  villages  on  the  Can 
adian.  The}*  have  taken  away  in  chains  twenty  of  the 
black  warriors  who  fought  with  Coacoochee  in  Florida. 
They  fired  upon  unarmed  Seminoles  within  the  lodges, 
and  they  have  killed  the  sister  of  Coacoochee.  If  the 
news  reaches  the  people  in  the  village "  —  and  he 
1  Morning  Dew. 


298  BABY  RUE. 


pointed  to  the  little  settlement  —  "your  lives  are  en 
dangered.  You  have  come  here  as  my  guests,  trusting 
to  the  protection  of  the  Seminoles.  We  are  here  to 
take  you  through  to  your  people.  There  is  no  time  to 
lose,  for  fugitives  who  have  escaped  the  slaughter 
may  come,  and  I  will  not  be  able  to  appease  with 
words  the  avengers  of  blood.  The  Pawnee  chief  has 
a  score  of  men  who  are  faithful  and  can  be  trusted ; 
they  are  already  down  the  valley  with  the  horses.  The 
boats  are  waiting  below  the  village.  Bring  the  child 
and  her  mother,  and  come."  The  manner  of  the  chief 
was  abrupt  and  imperious. 

Leszinksky  commenced:  "Chief — "  when  Coacoo- 
chee  stopped  him. 

"It  is  useless  to  talk.  Tell  your  general  he  has 
sent  3"ou  to  the  Seminoles  upon  a  fruitless  errand.  We 
cannot  live  in  peace  in  the  Creek  country.  It  is  full  of 
white  slave-stealers  and  murderers.  They  shoot  us, 
and  chain  our  allies,  and  drag  them  awa}'  captives. 
But  the  red  man's  heart  is  free  :  he  will  not  desert  the 
blacks,  who  were  his  neighbors  in  the  land  of  his  birth ; 
neither  will  he  let  those  who  came  with  peace  in  their 
hands  be  harmed." 

Again  the  door  opened :  this  time,  a  fairer  vision,  — 
Alaha-chayna,  who,  with  tears  falling  down  her  sweet 
face,  began  to  prepare  Margaret  and  Rue  for  the  jour 
ney.  Carson  took  her  hand  and  led  her  to  Coacoochee. 

"Chief,  I  love  your  daughter.  I  cannot  leave  her 
without  telling  you  the  truth.  She  is  willing  to  marry 
me  ;  and  to-morrow  I  intended  to  ask  you  to  trust  me 
with  her  happiness.  Now,  I  ask  you  to  keep  her  for 
me,  until  a  white  man  can  prove  to  }-ou  that  he  is  honest 
and  Io3-al.  You  will  wrong  her  if  you  refuse  me  the 
time  and  the  trial  I  ask." 

As  the  audacious  declaration  was  made,  Randall  and 
Leszinksky  looked  at  each  other  in  alarm  ;  all  closed 
about  the  group  in  the  centre  of  the  room,  as  if  to 
shield  Carson  fi-om  the  chiefs  displeasure. 

For  a  moment  Coacoochee's  eyes  flashed  into  the  blue 
eyes  of  the  }'oung  dragoon.  The  angry  glance  met  the 


COACOOCHEE.  299 


steady  light  of  truth.  Intense  feeling  had  given  Carson 
unwonted  dignity,  while  the  occasion  called  out  a  splen 
did  exhibition  of  the  highest  courage.  The  chief  now 
turned  to  his  daughter ;  there  were  quick,  short  ques 
tions  and  low  replies  in  the  Seminole  tongue.  Bravely, 
through  it  all,  the  young  maiden  left  her  hand  in  Car 
son's  as  she  answered  her  father,  her  voice  growing 
fuller  and  steadier  as  the  questioning  went  on.  There 
was  a  moment  of  breathless  silence.  Coacoochee  again 
seemed  to  read  with  a  look  the  very  soul  of  the  3'oung 
soldier ;  then  he  addressed  Randall :  "  I  have  said  that 
the  heart  of  an  Indian  is  free.  I  trust  in  your  care  the 
daughter  of  a  chief.  Take  her  with  3-011  to  the  house  of 
your  friends,"  —  he  waved  his  hand  at  Leszinksky  and 
Margaret,  —  ' '  and  see  that  she  goes  with  honor  and  a 
pure  name  to  the  home  of  her  husband." 

Then  they  saw  him,  as  a  shadowy  figure,  who  led  the 
way  in  silence  to  the  boats  below  the  village.  After 
they  were  embarked,  they  again  saw  him,  a  solitary 
figure,  in  the  swift  canoe  that  preceded  them  down  the 
river.  Below  the  shelving  ledge  of  the  hot  spring  were 
two  ponies,  that  were  to  take  Margaret  and  Alaha- 
chayna  to  the  little  glen  where  the  few  faithful  followers 
of  Lo-loch-to-hoo-la  waited  with  the  horses.  Coacoo 
chee  lifted  his  daughter  to  her  seat  in  the  fanciful 
Mexican  saddle,  and,  after  a  murmur  of  sweet  Indian 
words,  kissed  her,  and  with  a  quick  clasp  of  Carson's 
hand  placed  it  in  the  hand  of  his  child,  and  he  went 
up  the  valley  as  the  moon  came  out  of  the  clouds,  and 
a  burst  of  silvery  light  lit  its  bridal-robe  of  snow. 


APPENDIX. 


.  THE    LESZINKSKYS. 

THE  HISTORY  OF  A  FAMILY  THROUGH  THE  MIDDLE  AGES. 


THK  old  order  changeth,  yielding  place  to  new, 
And  God  fulfils  himself  in  many  ways. 

TENNYSON. 


APPENDIX. 


THE    LESZINKSKYS. 

THE  HISTORY  OF  A  FAMILY  THROUGH  THE  MIDDLE  AGES. 

A  PSYCHOLOGICAL  AND  GENEALOGICAL  STUDY  OP 
THE  LESZINKSKI.  —  The  personal  history  of  the  Leszinkskys, 
one  of  the  proudest  of  the  princely  houses  of  Warsaw,  is  a 
summary  of  the  history  of  Poland.  The  early  chroniclers  pre 
tend  to  carry  back  their  annals  to  the  remotest  periods ;  going 
so  far  as  to  trace  descent  from  Lech,  a  great-grandson  of 
Noah.  This  superstructure  of  ancestry  is  derived  from  a 
fanciful  affinity  to  the  name  of  Lech,  one  of  the  monarchs 
•who  figure  in  their  ancient  and  fabulous  legends,  and  which 
is  also  found  in  the  genealogy  of  the  patriarchs. 

Ground  for  this  traditionary  pretension  of  the  Leszinkskys 
is  given  in  the  changes  of  the  family  patronymic.  From  the 
Lechzinczski  of  the  voyvodes,  through  the  Leszczynski  of  the 
palatines,  to  the  Leszinkskys  of  the  French  and  American 
Revolutions,  there  is  an  unbroken  chain  of  descent,  easily 
traced,  even  through  the  dim  and  clouded  history  of  the 
Middle  Ages,  by  the  splendor  of  their  martial  achievements. 

The  first  of  the  Lechzinczski  voyvodes  had  fought  the 
Seljukian  Turks,  as  allies  of  the  Greek  Emperors  of  Con 
stantinople,  when  the  Ottoman  Turks  or  Osinanlis  were  yet 
a  wandering  tribe  from  Khorassan.  It  was  one  of  their 
proudest  boasts  that  for  two  centuries  the  banner  of  the 
Lechzinczski  was  the  oriflamme  of  victory  wherever  Chris 
tian  and  Moslem  met;  it  had  never  in  all  that  time  retreated 
before  the  Crescent.  On  two  stricken  fields,  where  the 
standards  of  the  Greek  emperor  were  surrendered,  the  Polish 
voyvodes  refused  quarter  and  perished  with  their  contingent. 
Out  of  these  disasters  grew  a  hereditary  enmity  that  took  the 


304  APPENDIX. 


Lechzinczski  colors  into  the  van  of  every  battle  where  shone 
the  silver  Crescent  of  the  Turk. 

When  pagans,  and  later  in  their  history  when  devout 
though  fierce  Catholics,  they  were  true  and  unfaltering  allies 
of  the  Greeks. 

In  1355  a  cadet  of  the  family  married  the  heiress  of  Kabilo- 
vitsch,  one  of  the  most  powerful  of  the  Servian  nobles.  The 
young  Lechzinczski  took  the  arms  and  name  of  his  wife's 
family,  who  were  closely  related  to  the  King  of  Servia. 

In  1376,  immediately  before  the  fall  of  Nissa,  the  Castle  of 
Kabilovitsch  was  captured  by  the  Turks.  The  old  Kabilo- 
vitsch  and  his  son-in-law  died  in  defence  of  their  stronghold ; 
the  garrison  was  put  to  the  sword,  and  the  wife,  two  sons  and 
three  daughters  of  Lechzinczski-Kabilovitsch  were  carried 
captives  to  Adrianople,  the  newly-acquired  capital  of  the 
Ottomans  in  Europe. 

Amurath  the  First  accepted  ransom  from  the  King  of 
Servia  for  the  mother  and  her  youngest  child,  a  daughter, 
but  refused  to  liberate  the  others.  His  favorite  wife  adopted 
the  two  older  daughters.  The  sons  were  to  be  forced  recruits 
in  the  famous  corps  of  Janissaries,  which  was  then  composed 
of  the  flower  of  captured  Christian  youth,  who,  cut  off  from 
all  ties  of  country  and  kindred,  trained  to  renounce  the  faith 
in  which  they  were  born,  carefully  educated  for  the  profession 
of  arms,  and  tempted  with  liberal  rewards  and  honors,  con 
stituted  a  military  brotherhood  that  grew  to  be  the  most 
powerful  instrument  of  imperial  ambition  ever  devised  by 
subtle  statecraft. 

The  elder  brother,  Stanislaus,  then  nineteen  years  of  age, 
resisted  all  threats,  all  seduction.  Milosch,  the  younger, 
yielded  to  persuasion  and  flattery,  and  assumed  the  uniform. 
The  brothers  had  been  constantly  separated;  but  Milosch 
seemed  to  be  so  content  with  his  position  and  so  pleased 
with  his  comrades,  that  he  was  permitted  to  see  his  brother, 
his  captors  believing  that  his  representation  of  the  service 
and  its  rewards  would  have  sure  effect  upon  the  mind  of  a 
youth  broken  by  solitude  and  harsh  treatment. 

Stanislaus  was  unbound  and  brought  to  the  tent  of  the 
Aga  of  Janissaries.  Milosch  sprang  to  meet  and  embrace 
him ;  but  Stanislaus  plucked  from  his  brother's  belt  a  jew 
elled  dagger  and  plunged  it  to  the  hilt  into  the  breast  of  the 
Aga,  saying,  "  This  for  the  dishonor  you  have  forced  upon 
my  father's  son!  "  Then  he  turned  upon  the  guard,  and  fell, 
pierced  by  a  dozen  sword- thrusts.  The  lesson  of  courage 
and  constancy  was  not  lost.  Milosch  tore  off  the  now  ab 
horred  uniform,  repressing  his  sobs  to  declare  his  hatred  of 


THE  LESZINKSKYS.  305 

his  brother's  murderers.  He  would  undoubtedly  have  been 
the  victim  of  the  sultan's  anger  but  for  the  interference  of 
the  Prince  of  Caraniania,  a  newly  reconciled  ally,  to  whom 
Amurath  had  just  given  in  marriage  his  adopted  daughter, 
the  twin-sister  of  Milosch,  having  betrothed  the  younger 
daughter  to  his  own  son,  Prince  Saoudji.  Milosch  was  taken 
by  the  prince  to  Caraniania,  and  treated  with  the  greatest 
kindness  and  indulgence;  but  although  he  became  much  at 
tached  to  his  brother-in-law,  he  sullenly  resented  his  sister's 
desertion  of  the  Christian  faith. 

The  prince,  sympathizing  with  the  boy's  conflict  of  feel 
ing,  sent  him,  accompanied  by  a  princely  escort  and  laden 
with  rich  presents,  to  the  Greek  Emperor  Palaeologous,  the 
hereditary  friend  of  his  father's  race. 

The  young  voyvode,  strikingly  handsome  and  recklessly 
brave,  in  a  few  years  became  the  favorite  of  the  court.  He 
was  the  acknowledged  leader  of  the  young  nobility,  distin 
guishing  himself  in  every  conflict  of  arms  where  the  now 
enfeebled  Greeks  made  attempt  to  resist  the  constantly 
encroaching  power  of  the  Ottoman  Turks  in  Europe.  When, 
at  length  Palaeologous,  disheartened  by  his  losses  and  the 
immense  military  superiority  of  Amurath,  decided  to  treat 
with  the  Turks  for  an  offensive  and  defensive  alliance,  Mi 
losch  openly  expressed  his  contempt  for  the  prudential  con 
siderations  of  the  emperor,  and  haughtily  took  leave  of  the 
court,  going  direct  to  Caraniania,  trusting  to  engage  his 
brother-in-law,  the  prince,  with  whom  he  had  kept  up 
kindly  relations,  to  oppose  the  Turkish  power  in  Asia, 
whilst  a  coalition  of  the  Bosnians,  Servians,  and  other  Scla 
vonic  tribes  should  attack  Amurath's  European  provinces. 
Having  succeeded  in  his  self-appointed  mission,  he  returned 
to  Constantinople,  on  his  route  to  Servia,  to  receive  intelli 
gence  which  utterly  wrecked  his  most  cherished  personal 
hopes.  A  stronger  feeling  than  hatred  to  the  Turks  had  led 
the  young  voyvode  where,  through  dangers  met  and  con 
quered,  ambition  pointed  the  path  of  success.  He  had  loved, 
with  all  the  intensity  and  daring  of  youth,  a  Byzantine  prin 
cess,  the  niece  of  the  emperor.  During  his  absence  she  had 
been  given  in  marriage  to  the  sultan,  as  the  seal  of  the  new 
alliance  of  Greek  and  Moslem.  Notwithstanding  the  differ 
ence  of  faith  and  the  little  estimate  in  which  women  were 
held  by  the  Mahometans,  such  marriages  were  not  uncommon, 
in  the  history  of  the  Greek  emperors.  These  alliances  were 
propitiatory  offerings  to  stop  conquest,  offerings  accepted  by 
the  wily  Turks  as  reason  for  the  future  acquisition  of  new 
territory. 


306  APPENDIX. 


The  young  Lechzinczski-Kabilovitsch  sought  his  sister,  the 
wife  of  Prince  Saoudji,  and  forced  her  to  arrange  an  inter 
view,  in  which  he  intended  to  overwhelm  with  scorn  and 
reproach  the  woman  who  had  bartered  his  love  for  a  crown. 
He  found  only  a  pale,  heart-broken  victim  of  kingly  craft, 
whom  he  forgave  whilst  swearing  to  avenge  her  wrongs  and 
his  own.  In  this  mood  he  arrived  at  the  court  of  the  King 
of  Servia  and  found  the  country  ripe  for  revolt  against  the 
Turks,  who,  since  the  fall  of  Kissa,  had  exacted  from  the 
Servians  a  yearly  tribute  of  one  thousand  pounds  of  silver 
and  one  thousand  horse-soldiers.  The  tax  of  silver  alone 
was  for  that  age  heavy ;  but  the  yearly  burthen  of  furnish 
ing  and  equipping  a  thousand  horsemen  was  still  more  griev 
ous  to  a  prince  already  crippled  by  the  loss  of  the  most 
important  city  in  his  kingdom. 

The  history  of  the  Middle  Ages  furnishes  the  record  of  no 
more  daring  adventurer,  no  diplomat  more  skilled  in  intrigue, 
than  the  young  Milosch  Kabilovitsch.  Energetic  and  reso 
lute,  the  very  rashness  of  his  courage  was  an  element  of  suc 
cess,  giving  him  a  marked  ascendency  over  the  turbulent  and 
restless  Sclavonians  of  Bosnia,  Servia,  and  Poland.  To  the 
fierce  and  intractable  will  of  the  Polish  voyvode,  born  the 
ruler  of  life  and  death  of  the  serfs  on  his  immense  estates, 
he  added  the  passive  and  stolid  power  of  resistance  to  obsta 
cle  he  had  learned  from  the  Turks,  joined  to  the  finesse  and 
politic  statecraft  of  the  Greek  court,  then,  it  is  true,  in  its 
decadence,  but  which,  despoiled  by  military  power,  was  the 
centre  of  every  political  coalition  of  Eastern  Europe.  Such 
a  character  could  not  fail  of  leadership  in  the  complications 
which  at  that  time  puzzled  the  wisest  and  most  experienced 
statesmen. 

The  Ottoman  power  was  steadily  moving  to  its  zenith. 
Orchan,  the  predecessor  of  Amurath  the  First,  in  a  reign  of 
thirty-three  years  had  not  only  conquered,  but  had  almost 
completed  the  work  of  making  a  homogeneous  country  of  the 
fairest  provinces  of  Western  Asia.  Gaining  a  foothold  on 
the  European  continent,  he  established  his  growing  power 
by  a  marriage  with  the  emperor's  daughter  and  an  alliance 
with  the  Greeks.  The  first  essay  of  his  successor  had  been 
to  extend  the  conquests  of  Orchan  in  Europe. 

Ever  after  the  capture  of  Adrianople  the  Greek  emperor 
had  cringed  to  the  sultan;  but  treaties  and  alliances  were 
only  the  flimsy  coverings  of  hate  and  fear.  The  Greek  court 
was  the  hidden  focus  of  every  intrigue  that  had  for  its  object 
the  humiliation  or  downfall  of  the  Turks. 

Through  the  efforts  of  Milosch-Kabilovitsch,  a  close  and 


THE  LESZINKSKYS.  307 

secret  alliance  had  been  formed  by  his  brothers-in-law, 
Prince  Saoudji  and  the  Prince  of  Caramania,  with  Andro 
nicus,  son  of  the  Emperor  PalaBologous.  The  Prince  of 
Caramania  took  the  initiative,  surprised  and  defeated  AH 
Pasha,  and  then  threatened  Brusa,  thus  drawing  Amurath 
with  the  larger  portion  of  his  army  to  Asia.  Prince  Saoudji, 
who  had  been  left  in  command  at  Adrianople,  immediately 
united  his  forces  with  the  young  Greek  nobility  and  their 
followers  under  Andronicus,  and  in  open  revolt  established 
their  camp  near  Constantinople. 

Amurath  hurried  back  across  the  Straits,  leaving  Prince 
Bajazet  to  hold  the  Caramanians  in  check.  He  summoned 
the  Greek  emperor  to  his  presence  to  answer  for  the  conduct 
of  Andronicus.  Palseologous  denied  all  participation  in  the 
rebellion;  and  to  allay  the  suspicion  of  Amurath,  agreed  to 
join  in  the  attack  upon  their  sons. 

The  return  of  Amurath  disconcerted  the  plans  of  the 
princes,  rendering  the  diversion  of  the  Prince  of  Caramania 
useless,  arid  forestalling  the  arrival  of  Milosch-Kabilovitsch 
with  their  Servian  and  Polish  allies.  They  retreated  to  the 
town  of  Didymotichi,  where  they  were  besieged  into  surren 
der.  Prince  Saoudji  was  beheaded  in  his  father's  presence. 
The  adherents  of  the  princes  were  put  to  the  sword,  and  the 
Princess  Saoudji  saved  herself  and  her  young  children  by  a 
rapid  flight  into  Bosnia. 

Notwithstanding  these  disasters,  the  resolution  of  Milosch 
Kabilovitsch  never  faltered.  He  had  been  met  on  his  return 
from  Poland  with  the  news  of  the* utter  defeat  of  the  princes, 
the  execution  of  Prince  Saoudji,  and  the  condition  of  his 
fugitive  sister. 

At  the  head  of  the  Poles  and  Hungarians  he  hastened  to 
Bosnia  to  her  relief.  There,  joined  by  the  Servian  and  Bul 
garian  force  already  in  the  field,  he  made  a  sudden  and 
impetuous  attack  upon  the  advancing  Ottomans,  whom  he 
completely  routed  and  destroyed. 

Unfortunately  for  the  coalition,  Milosch  was  severely 
wounded  in  the  engagement.  He  was  carried  to  the  Castle 
of  Kabilovitsch,  which  he  had  retaken  from  the  Turks  and 
which  was  now  the  asylum  of  the  widow  of  Prince  Saoudji 
and  her  children.  During  a  previous  visit  to  Poland  he  had 
taken  with  him  his  mother  and  younger  sister,  who  had  until 
then  resided  at  the  court  of  their  kinsman  the  King  of  Ser- 
via.  By  this  sister's  marriage  with  the  Lechzinczski  voy- 
vode,  the  acknowledged  head  of  the  family,  he  had  strength 
ened  his  cause  with  the  Poles,  but  his  enforced  absence 
from  the  allied  army  at  this  time  lost  them  the  fruits  of  the 


308  APPENDIX. 


victory  he  had  gained.  Jealousies  and  dissensions,  the  vacil 
lations  and  delays  which  usually  attend  a  confederacy  com 
posed  of  rival  powers,  kept  the  forces  of  the  allies  inactive  at 
the  very  moment  when  vigorous  action  was  most  needed. 

The  Turks  under  AH  Pasha,  who  burned  with  a  desire  to 
wipe  out  the  record  of  his  late  defeat  in  Asia,  marched  north 
ward  in  heaw  force  across  that  mountain-chain  of  the  Balkan 
which  by  the  recent  treaty  of  Berlin  has  been  assigned  to 
them  as  their  natural  barrier  against  invasion.  Schumla 
surrendered;  Tirnova  and  Pravadi  were  stormed  and  cap 
tured;  Bulgaria  was  completely  overrun;  the  king  surren 
dered  at  discretion,  and  the  kingdom  was  annexed  to  the 
Ottoman  Empire,  which  thus  advanced  its  northern  frontier 
to  the  Danube. 

The  Servians,  alarmed  at  the  utter  destruction  of  their  con 
federate,  now  earnestly  sought  to  collect  the  remaining  forces 
of  the  anti-Turkish  league,  and  instantly  prepared  for  a 
desperate  resistance.  Servia,  Bosnia,  Poland,  all  of  Sclavonic 
blood,  except  Russsia  (which  at  that  time  was  held  in  wretched 
slavery  by  the  Mongols),  united  in  this  conflict  of  races. 
Besides  these  Sclavonic  nations,  the  Skijeetars  of  Albania, 
the  semi-Roman  people  of  Wallachia,  and  the  Magyars  of 
Hungary,  — who,  like  their  kinsmen,  the  Ottoman  Turks,  had 
won  by  force  a  settlement  in  Europe,  but,  unlike  the  Turks, 
adopted  the  creed  and  civilization  of  Christendom,  —  now 
joined  in  one  great  effort  against  the  invading  Moslem.  Xo 
further  aid  was  obtainable.  The  ruling  kingdoms  of  Western 
Europe  heard  with  indifference  of  the  perils  to  which  Eastern 
Europe  was  exposed  by  the  encroachments  of  this  new  Ma 
hometan  power.  The  weak  Richard  the  Second  ruled  in 
England.  The  almost  imbecile  Charles  the  Sixth  was  king 
of  France.  The  German  Empire,  under  the  worthless  Wen- 
ceslaus,  was  in  a  wretched  condition.  War  was  raging  be 
tween  the  Robber  Knights  and  the  burghers  of  the  free  cities 
from  the  Rhine  to  the  Danube.  The  schism  in  the  papacy 
divided  the  Catholic  power,  and  the  two  popes  —  one  at  Avig 
non  and  one  at  Rome  —  hurled  anathemas  at  each  other  and  at 
the  heretic  Greeks.  The  old  crusading  spirit  had  died  out, 
and  the  rising  of  the  Crescent  in  the  eastern  horizon  of  Eu 
rope  only  served  to  light  the  path  of  the  turbulent  and  power 
ful  nobles  who  contended  for  supremacy  in  the  West. 

There  are  times  in  the  history  of  nations  when  one  man  is  of 
more  worth  than  an  army.  The  great  need  of  the  allies  was 
a  leader.  They  outnumbered  the  Turks  nearly  two  to  one. 
Unhappily,  they  also  outnumbered  them  in  commanders. 
Amurath  had  taken  the  field  in  person.  Under  him  was 


THE  LESZINKSKYS.  309 

marshalled  a  well-disciplined  and  thoroughly  trained  soldiery, 
led  by  the  most  famous  officers  of  the  time :  Ali  Pasha,  Prince 
Bajazet  —  surnamed  "  Yilderim  "  or  the  "  Lightning  "  for  the 
terrible  rapidity  of  his  charge,  —  Tiinourtash,  Yoldan.  Bey  and 
Prince  Yacoub.  Either  of  these  leaders  was  the  superior,  in 
military  chieftainship  and  strategetical  skill,  of  the  princes  of 
the  confederation ;  but,  able  as  they  were,  they  were  only  the 
lieutenants  of  a  general  who  had  proved  himself  matchless 
in  the  hardest  fought  fields  of  Asia  and  Europe.  Amurath 
was  there  in  person  to  hold  the  van  with  his  Janissaries ;  and 
when  on  the  27th  of  August,  1389,  the  sun  arose  over  the 
plains  of  Kassova,  it  was  the  sun  of  victory  to  the  Turkish 
sultan.  The  night  before,  the  conference  of  the  confederate 
princes  had  broken  up  in  stormy  disputes.  Ill-digested 
plans  had  been  discussed  and  thrown  aside.  The  hour  had 
struck,  but  the  man  was  wanting. 

Milosch  Kabilovitsch,  the  soul  of  the  coalition,  barely  re 
covered  from  his  wound,  had  risen  from  his  bed  at  the  earnest 
entreaty  of  the  King  of  Servia ;  but  with  all  the  haste  he  could 
make  in  his  enfeebled  state,  he  was  still  a  day's  journey 
away.  Courier  after  courier  met  him  with  entreaty,  that 
grew  to  prayer.  The  Poles  and  Hungarians  refused  to  go 
into  action  until  he  should  arrive,  and  obstinately  stayed  with 
the  rear-guard.  The  Servians  hesitated  until  their  sovereign, 
King  Lazarus,  shamed  them  into  following  his  banner. 

There  were  quarrels  for  place  and  command  that  threw  the 
troops  into  confusion  until  the  fierce  charge  of  Prince  Baja 
zet  forced  them  to  make  common  cause  against  the  Turks. 
Vuk  Brankowich  at  the  head  of  the  Servian  and  Albanian 
force  on  the  right  whig,  fought  desperately  until  the  Bosnians 
on  the  left  gave  way,  and  Prince  Bajazet  was  at  liberty  to  lead 
his  command,  flushed  with  success,  against  the  already  hard- 
pressed  Christian  right.  At  the  same  instant,  the  Janissaries 
under  Amurath  advanced  against  the  centre,  which  was  held 
by  King  Lazarus,  following  a  charge  of  the  Akindji  and  Azabs, 
and  the  field  was  virtually  won  by  the^Turks. 

Charged  furiously  in  every  quarter,  obliged  to  fight  in  con 
fusion  and  disorder,  their  own  strength  and  that  of  their 
horses  exhausted,  Vuk  Brankowich  and  his  command  died 
gloriously,  around  their  standards. 

At  this  crisis  of  disaster,  the  Poles  and  Hungarians,  moved 
by  some  new  and  sudden  impulse,  advanced  with  a  wild  cry, 
and  rode  down  the  Turkish  irregulars  like  reeds;  and  then, 
with  levelled  spears,  they  charged  the  advanced  division  of  the 
Janissaries.  They  broke  through  the  ranks  of  that  famous 
corps,  and  sent  the  Spahis  flying,  like  leaves  in  the  wind. 


310  APPENDIX. 


But  the  day  was  lost  before  this  glorious  charge  was 
made. 

The  Janissaries  rallied  and  re-formed  in  the  rear  of  the 
Polish  and  Hungarian  squadron,  "cutting  off  all  chance  of 
retreat ;  whilst  in  front  a  steady  forest  of  hostile  spears  began  to 
extend  and  wheel  their  inclosing  lines  around  the  doomed  band. 
At  this  moment  their  ranks  opened,  and  a  man  rode  toward 
the  standard  of  the  sultan,  throwing  away  his  spear,  making 
no  effort  to  do  aught  but  parry  attack.  Supposing  him  a 
deserter,  he  was  dismounted  and  brought  into  the  presence  of 
Amurath.  Pretending  he  had  important  secrets  to  reveal,  he 
was  admitted  to  approach  the  sultan,  whom  he  stabbed  with 
a  sudden  and  mortal  stroke  of  his  dagger.  Quickly  turning 
on  the  guard,  Milosch  Kabilovitsch  —  for  it  was  he  — although 
still  suffering  from  his  wounds,  thrice  cleared  himself  from 
the  press  of  vengeful  foes  and  fought  his  way  to  his  horse,  as 
the  Poles  once  again  broke  through  the  Janissaries  and  sur 
rounded  him.  Whether  it  was  then,  or  afterwards,  he  re 
ceived  his  death-blow,  was  never  known ;  for  one  by  one  man 
and  horse  went  down,  until  the  ground  where  the  greatest  of 
the  voyvodes  perished  was  piled  with  the  dying  and  dead. 

It  is  interesting  to  a  student  of  psychology  to  trace  family 
characteristics  through  the  changes  of  centuries,  as  they  are 
intensified  or  modified  by  new  infusions  and  the  culture  that 
results  from  grafting. 

There  are  no  more  well-defined  or  salient  figures  in  history 
than  are  to  be  found  in  different  groups  of  the  Sclavic  race ; 
and  in  no  group  of  that  race  are  more  marked  types  than  in 
this  of  the  Lechzinczski. 

In  all  families  there  are  certain  individuals  who  seem  to 
gather  into  their  own  personality  the  very  essence  of  race, 
thus  becoming  its  interpreters  and  representatives.  The 
history  of  the  Lechzinczski-Kabilovitsch  furnishes  the  key 
to  the  understanding  of  character,  as  well  as  to  that  of  the 
alliances  of  the  family  in  the  Orient.  Inflexible  will  and  un 
yielding  adhesion  to  a  faith  that  grew  dearer  from  persecution, 
joined  to  a  high  and  noble  regard  for  the  untarnished  honor 
of  his  house,  placed  the  name  of  the  young  Stanislaus  Lech 
zinczski-Kabilovitsch  on  the  first  and  most  glorious  page  of 
the  family  archives.  Milosch  was  a  variety  of  the  same  type ; 
but  the  mixed  Turkish  and  Greek  training  had  its  effect 
upon  the  impressionable  Sclav.  His  courage  was  aggres 
sive  as  well  as  resolute.  Intellectually  he  was  the  giant  of 
his  race.  The  central  and  governing  figure  in  every  political 
and  military  coalition  of  Eastern  Europe  and  Western  Asia, 
he  despotically  ruled  the  councils  of  the  Confederation 


THE  LESZINKSKYS.  311 

until  the  end  of  his  short  but  brilliant  career  upon  the  field 
of  Kossova. 

The  three  sisters  of  Stanislaus  and  Milosch  were  no  less 
remarkable.  Distinguished  for  their  wonderful  beauty, 
known  in  every  court  of  Europe  and  Western  Asia  as  the 
"  three  lilies  of  Kabilovitsch,"  they  impressed  themselves 
upon  their  time  and  were  efficient  allies  of  Milosch.  Imperi 
ous,  ambitious,  loyal  always  to  the  traditions  of  their  house, 
clinging  together  through  all  changes  of  fortune,  self-poised 
at  the  summit  of  success,  unfaltering  in  purpose,  unshaken 
in  resolution  in  the  midst  of  disaster,  they  seemed  to  make 
good  the  claims  of  the  Sclavi  to  descent  from  the  Amazons. 
Entering  princely  houses,  they  ruled  the  alliances  of  those 
houses,  and  to  their  influence  can  be  traced  points  of  depar 
ture  in  polity  which  in  after  years  marked  the  beginning  of 
new  dynasties. 

The  Princess  Nifisay,  the  eldest,  had  always  great  influence 
with  her  adopted  father,  Amurath.  Even  after  the  battle  of 
Iconium,  she  succeeded  in  disarming  his  rage  against  her 
husband,  and  won  honorable  terms  for  the  revolted  Caraman- 
ians.  Her  only  son  married  his  cousin,  the  daughter  of  the 
Polish  Lechzinczski. 

The  Princess  Saoudji  was  the  centre  and  moving  spirit 
of  the  revolt  of  Adrianople.  After  her  escape  to  Bosnia 
she  was  queen  absolute  in  the  camp  of  the  allies.  Left  by 
Milosch  chatelaine  of  the  Castle  of  Kabilovitsch,  she  de 
fended  it  with  a  small  force  of  Poles  and  Albanians  against 
a  three  days'  assault  of  the  vanguard  of  the  Turks,  when  the 
arrival  of  Bajazet  himself,  with  overwhelming  numbers, 
forced  its  surrender;  but  even  then  she  made  terms  for 
the  safety  of  the  garrison.  Distrusting  her  brother-in-law, 
Prince  Bajazet,  who  had  signalized  his  accession  to  the  throne 
by  the  murder  of  Prince  Yacoub,  the  next  in  succession,  she 
confided  her  only  son,  Prince  Osman,  to  the  care  of  a  faithful 
Albanian.  He,  finding  escape  into  Poland  or  Hungary  impos 
sible,  adopted  the  bold  and,  as  it  proved,  successful  expedient 
of  crossing  into  Asia,  where  he  found  shelter  and  protection 
for  the  young  prince  at  the  court  of  the  Emir  of  Nedjid.  The 
Princess  Saoudji,  with  her  daughter,  was  released  by  Prince 
Bajazet  and  permitted  to  go  to  her  sister  in  Poland,  where 
she  hoped  to  find  her  son  arrived.  When  the  young  Prince 
of  Caramania  came  for  his  promised  bride,  the  daughter  of 
Elizabeth,  the  youngest  of  the  "  lilies,"  she  learned  from  him 
of  the  safe  arrival  of  her  son  in  Derayeh,  the  capital  of  Ned 
jid.  She  prepared  to  rejoin  him,  but  an  alliance  proposed 
for  her  daughter  with  Gedymin,  Grand  Duke  of  Lithuania. 


312  APPENDIX. 


who  afterwards  wrested  the  Ukraine  from  Russia,  detained 
her  until  its  completion.  This  delay  and  another  at  the  court 
of  Caramania,  prevented  her  arrival  in  Nedjid  until  after  her 
son's  accession  to  the  throne,  he  having  been  adopted  by  the 
late  emir,  whose  daughter  he  had  married.  Later  in  history, 
at  the  time  of  the  Mahometan  reformation,  we  find  the  Emir 
Saoud,  son  of  Osman,  military  leader  of  the  Wahabees. 

The  marriage  of  Elizabeth,  the  youngest  of  the  sisters  of 
Milosch,  with  the  Lechzinczski  voyvode,  was  the  epoch  from 
which  dated  the  rapid  advancement  to  power  of  the  family 
in  Poland.  Her  grandson,  the  first  palatine,  —  who  ranks 
third  in  the  great  names  of  the  Leszinkskys,  —  was  the  con 
queror  of  the  Teutonic  knights,  who  until  then  had  been  the 
terror  of  the  Poles  as  well  as  of  the  free  cities  of  the  Rhine. 
The  Zolkiewskis,  the  Sobieskis,  the  Czartoryskis,  proudly 
trace  their  descent  from  the  youngest  and  fairest  of  the 
"  lilies  of  Kabilovitsch  "  ;  and  there  are  characteristics,  per 
sonal  and  mental,  in  these  families  which  show  a  marked 
resemblance  of  race.  The  great  Zriny,  the  defender  of  Szi- 
geth,  —  not  unworthily  named  the  Leonidas  of  Hungary,  — 
was  a  grandson  of  Elizabeth. 

With  the  name  of  John  Sobieski  in  the  family  annals  is 
joined  that  of  Palatine  Raphael  Leszczynski  (the  change  of 
patronymic  came  with  the  palatinate),  the  fourth  star  of  the 
first  magnitude  in  our  record.  Educated  at  the  court  of 
Louis  the  Fourteenth  of  France,  skilled  in  all  martial  and 
knightly  accomplishments,  the  personal  friend  and  companion 
in  his  wanderings  from  court  to  court  of  King  Charles  the 
Second  of  England,  the  entire  resources  of  his  estate  in  Po 
land  were  used  in  his  friend's  service,  and  his  life  freely  ad 
ventured  in  frequent  and  hazardous  journeys  to  England  and 
Scotland,  whenever  the  need  of  the  king  required  there  a  de 
voted  and  trusty  friend.  After  the  Restoration,  finding  the 
debts  owing  him  had  escaped  the  king's  memory,  and  scorning 
to  recall  his  services,  the  palatine  visited  his  relatives  in 
Hungary.  True  to  the  hereditary  enmity  of -his  house,  he 
sought  service  with  Monticuculi,  general  of  the  Austrian  and 
Hungarian  army,  in  the  war  against  the  Sultan  Mahomet 
the  Fourth. 

At  the  battle  of  St.  Gothard,  the  palatine,  at  the  head  of 
the  imperial  cavalry,  repeatedly  charged  the  ranks  of  the 
Janissaries.  Repulsed  time  after  time,  with  thinned  ranks, 
the  Christian  cavalry  wavered,  when  Leszczynski  passed  the 
word  along  the  line  that  they  "  must  break  the  Turks  or 
perish."  Riding  in  front  of  his  men  bareheaded,  the  pala 
tine  halted,  and,  holding  his  hand  toward  heaven,  made  the 


THE  LESZINKSKYS,  313 

prayer  so  famous  in  history,  "  0  mighty  Generalissimo  icho 
art  on  high  I  if  thou  icilt  not  this  day  help  thy  children,  the  Chris- 
tians,  at  least  do  not  help  these  dogs,  the  Turks ;  and  thou  sha.lt 
soon  see  something  that  will  please  thee."  Either  the  prayer 
•was  heard  or  else  the  spirit  of  the  mighty  palatine  had  found 
an  answering  chord  in  the  hearts  of  his  men;  for  in  this 
charge  the  famous  infantry  was  not  only  broken,  but  literally 
trampled  to  death  beneath  the  hoofs  of  his  cohorts. 

In  defence  of  Candia  against  the  Turks  some  years  later, 
the  palatine  was  again  a  volunteer.  After  the  fall  of  Candia 
he  came  back  to  Poland  in  time  to  aid  Sobieski  and  some  few 
of  the  great  nobles  to  break  the  humiliating  treaty  made 
•with  the  Turks  by  the  King  of  Poland.  At  Lemberg  he  was 
the  right  arm  of  Sobieski,  who  there  gained  the  most  brilliant 
victory  of  the  age.  At  the  liberation  of  Vienna  the  palatine 
again  led  the  charge  against  the  Janissaries,  but  he  fell,  mor 
tally  wounded,  in  the  moment  of  victory.  He  was  succeeded 
in  the  palatinate  by  his  son  Stanislaus,  afterwards  King  of 
Poland. 

Again  we  have  a  Leszczynski  so  prominent  in  history  that 
we  have  only  to  name  him  the  fifth  in  our  constellation.  The 
character  of  King  Stanislaus,  his  uprightness,  courage,  equa 
nimity,  and  patience,  prove  the  effect  of  civilization,  the  cul 
ture  of  time,  and  the  modification  of  grafts,  upon  the  untamed 
fiery  spirit  of  his  ancestor,  the  great  voyvode. 

"  Stanislaus  Leszczynski,"  said  one  of  his  contemporaries, 
"  has  a  happy  facility  of  manners  that  makes  him  win  his 
way  to  all  hearts.  Courageous  and  at  the  same  time  mild 
in  disposition,  he  is  also  prepossessing  in  appearance."  At 
the  time  of  the  disputes  in  the  Polish  Succession,  after  the 
death  of  Sobieski,  Charles  the  Twelfth  of  Sweden  declared 
he  had  "  never  seen  a  man  so  fit  to  conciliate  all  parties." 
The  changes  of  fortune  which  met  King  Stanislaus;  his 
abdication  to  give  peace  to  Poland;  his  recall  to  the  king 
dom  ;  the  marriage  of  his  daughter  Marie  to  Louis  the  Fif 
teenth  of  France;  the  treachery  which  led  to  the  surrender 
of  Dantzig,  the  only  city  of  Poland  that  could  stand  a  siege; 
the  second  abdication  of  royalty ;  the  peerless  integrity  which 
decided  his  rival  to  trust  to  the  care  of  the  ex-king  his  chil 
dren,  whom  the  fortunes  of  war  had  left  homeless:  the  words 
with  which  the  warm-hearted  and  forgiving  philosopher  re 
ceived  them,  —  "  Heaven  no  doubt  drove  me  from  my  country 
that  I  might  be  able  to  afford  you  an  asylum  in  your  mis 
fortune," — all  the  events  of  his  life,  and  its  numberless  roman 
tic  incidents,  brighten  and  adorn  the  page  of  the  earlier  part 
of  the  eighteenth  century.  With  only  one  episode  we  have 


314  APPENDIX. 


to  do.  During  a  visit  of  King  Stanislaus  to  the  Pasha  of 
Moldavia,  at  the  time  of  his  escape  after  the  surrender  of 
Dantzig,  pleased  with  the  charming  face  and  manner  of  a 
boy  offered  for  sale  in  the  market-place,  he  bought  the  child 
and  brought  him  to  Lorraine,  and  afterwards  took  him  to 
Paris.  It  then  transpired  that  the  boy  was  the  son  of  the 
Emir  of  Nedjid,  consequently  a  descendant  of  Princess 
Saoudji.  The  family  of  the  emir  had  been  captured  at  their 
summer  home  in  the  mountains. 

The  two  daughters,  twins,  had  been  destined  for  the  sul 
tan's  harem  at  Constantinople,  but  were  lost  by  their  captors, 
the  ship  being  taken  by  an  Algerine  pirate.  The  boy  had 
been  sold  to  a  slave-merchant  from  Moldavia,  and  happily 
rescued  by  King  Stanislaus,  who  was  now  about  to  entrust 
him  to  the  French  envoy  to  Arabia  to  be  restored  to  his 
father,  when  the  child  asked  that  he  might  first  visit  a  cousin 
of  his  father,  a  baron  of  Brittany,  himself  a  descendant  of 
the  Moors  of  Grenada. 

King  Stanislaus  accompanied  the  boy  to  Brittany,  where, 
to  their  joy,  they  found  the  twin-sisters,  whose  ransom  had 
been  effected  by  the  son  of  this  relative  who  was  in  the  port 
of  Tripoli  at  the  time  of  the  pirate's  return.  He  had  brought 
the  girls  to  Brittany,  the  Ottoman  wars  in  the  East  having 
made  their  return  to  Arabia  for  the  time  impossible. 

The  beauty  and  intelligence  of  one  of  the  sisters  captivated 
the  still  romantic  and  impressionable  old  monarch;  his  kind 
ness  to  her  brother  commanded  her  gratitude,  and  a  private 
marriage  was  quickly  arranged. 

The  marriage  of  the  Catholic  king  to  his  Mahometan 
bride,  who  refused  to  give  up  her  faith,  was  celebrated  by  a 
Huguenot  preacher;  consequently  it  was  not  legal  in  that 
country  or  time.  But  the  king  chivalrously  kept  his  plighted 
faith,  and  when,  the  following  year,  his  young  wife  died  in 
Paris  in  child-bed,  he  openly  acknowledged  the  marriage  and 
his  son. 

The  ex-king  died  in  Paris  in  1766.  The  young  Count  de 
Deux  Ponts,  then  fifteen  years  of  age,  bore  his  barren  title 
only  by.  courtesy  of  the  royal  family  of  France. 

Poland  had  now  another  sovereign,  and  the  Duchies  of 
Bar  and  Lorraine,  by  the  treaty  signed  at  Vienna  in  1735, 
were,  upon  the  death  of  King  Stanislaus,  to  devolve  to  the 
crown  of  France.  In  addition,  the  council  declared  the 
French  king  heir  of  the  Duchy  of  Deux  Ponts.  The  sale  of 
some  valuable  jewels  sent  to  his  mother  by  the  Emir  of  Ned 
jid,  immediately  after  her  marriage,  sufficed  for  the  boy's 
education  and  keep. 


THE  LESZINKSKYS.  315 

The  hauteur  and  coldness  of  his  royal  relatives  in  France 
had  disgusted  young  Stanislaus  with  kings  and  courtiers, 
and  when,  in  1777,  his  comrade  and  friend,  the  young  Mar 
quis  de  la  Fayette,  proposed  to  him  to  form  one  of  his 
company  of  volunteers  to  America,  the  offer  was  instantly 
accepted. 

So  the  sixth  star  of  the  Leszinksky  rose  in  the  Western 
horizon,  brightening  steadily  from  the  moment  the  young 
Count  de  Deux  Pouts  landed  at  Georgetown,  —  his  sole  in 
heritance  his  father's  sword  and  his  mother's  wedding-ring 
with  the  simple  inscription,  "  Stanislaus  a  Ruchiel." 

The  25th  of  April,  1777,  the  Marquis  de  la  Fayette,  the 
Barons  Kosciusko,  Pulaski,  and  de  Kalb,  the  Count  de  Deux 
Fonts  and  six  French  gentlemen,  having  landed  the  day 
before  at  Georgetown,  entered  the  city  of  Charleston,  South 
Carolina.  They  were  received  in  the  most  hospitable  man 
ner  by  the  Whigs.  In  fact,  their  arrival  could  not  have  been 
better  timed  had  they  especially  desired  to  secure  an  enthu 
siastic  and  cordial  welcome.  It  was  the  most  distressing 
period  in  the  history  of  the  colonial  struggle.  The  slender 
resources  of  the  revolutionists  were  beginning  to  give  way. 
There  had  been  a  rapid  inflation  in  the  prices  of  the  actual 
necessaries  of  life,  whilst  luxuries  were  already  far  beyond 
the  means  of  the  less  wealthy  planters  of  the  South,  and  the 
small  farmers  of  the  North. 

The  first  successes  of  the  Continentals  had  led  to  over- 
confidence;  the  reaction  caused  undue  depression.  Arnold 
had  retreated  from  Canada,  which  was  now  in  the  unmolested 
possession  of  the  British  troops.  Washington  had  given  up 
Long  Island,  after  the  capture  of  two  of  his  generals  and  a 
heavy  proportion  of  his  small  force.  The  reverses  in  the 
field  had  such  an  effect  upon  the  undisciplined  troops  that 
notwithstanding  the  consistent  force  of  character  of  the  corn- 
mander-in-chief,  he  had  half-despairingly  exclaimed,  "  Are 
these  the  men  I  am  to  defend  America  with?  "  The  patient 
endurance  and  resolute  courage  of  "  the  gentleman  from  Vir 
ginia  "  were  sorely  tried  by  the  insubordination  of  the  men 
and  the  incompetence  of  the  commissariat. 

The  Southern  colonies  had  not  yet  felt  the  full  force  of  the 
war;  but  the  fierce  partisanship  of  the  Tories  taught  them 
what  they  might  expect  from  domestic  foes  if  once  supported 
by  British  regulars.  The  leading  clansmen  among  the  Scotch 
Highlanders  settled  in  North  and  South  Carolina  were  now 
loyal  supporters  of  the  government  to  which  they  had  sur 
rendered  upon  the  field  of  Culloden.  That  tried  adherent  of 
the  Stuarts,  Donald  Macdonald  of  Keppoch,  was  now  in 


316  APPENDIX. 


Carolina,  as  faithful  to  the  house  of  Hanover  as  he  had  been 
iu  Scotland  to  the  Young  Pretender.  Even  McLeod,  for 
getting  the  butcheries  of  the  Duke  of  Cumberland,  accepted 
a  command  in  the  Household  Troops.  These  Highland  gen 
tlemen  were  monarchists  purs  et  simples  ;  single-thoughted  and 
devout  in  their  beliefs,  they  were  still  Royalists,  though  the 
"  Young  Chevalier  "  had  died  in  exile,  and  the  crown  was  the 
inheritance  of  the  family  that  had  supplanted  him. 

Until  1777  the  contest  in  the  Carolinas  had  been  altogether 
one  of  opinion.  The  two  leading  clansmen,  Macdouald  and 
McLeod,  had  been  in  constant  communication  with  the  Royal 
ists  of  the  Xorth  and  the  generals  of  the  regular  army ;  but 
their  absence  from  home  had  not  as  yet  been  signalized  by 
any  interruption  of  neighborly  intercourse  between  the  two 
factious.  The  most  noted  Whig  gentlemen  were  with  the 
Continentals  in  Virginia,  and  the  Carolinians  at  home  had 
come  to  regard  the  war  more  as  an  occasion  for  the  expres 
sion  of  sympathy,  than  as  an  actuality  in  which  they  had  per 
sonal  interest.  Still  sympathy  was  intense,  and  partisanship 
was  growing  daily  more  bitter,  more  separating  in  its  social 
effect. 

In  this  state  of  affairs  the  landing  of  these  foreign  allies, 
though  few  in  number  and  officially  unauthorized  by  the 
French  Government,  was  more  significant  than  would  first 
appear  at  this  distant  date.  It  was  to  the  downcast  Whigs 
the  harbinger  of  a  new  epoch,  the  earnest  of  future  help. 
The  immediate  effect  was  electric:  the  patriots  grew  bolder 
in  act  as  well  as  expression.  Men  were  ashamed  not  to  be  in 
arms  for  a  cause  they  had  declared  to  be  just  and  righteous, 
when  foreigners  had  come  to  offer  help. 

The  progress  of  these  gentlemen  through  the  country  was 
an  ovation.  They  lit  the  torches  of  war  that  Sumpter  and 
Marion  kept  alive.  It  was  not  alone  the  tried  and  untried 
swords  of  Lafayette  and  his  friends  that  were  offered  to  the 
Continental  cause  that  summer  in  Philadelphia,  but  the  faith 
and  hope  of  the  South,  that  brightened  at  their  approach, 
and  that  burned  steadily  through  all  subsequent  trial  and 
disaster. 

But  we  have  only  to  do  with  what  befell  the  sixth  hero  in 
our  line.  Stanislaus  Leszinksky,  Count  de  Deux  Pouts, 
served  as  a  volunteer  aide  with  Washington  until  after  the 
battle  of  Brandywine,  when,  in  token  of  its  appreciation  of 
his  brilliant  service  and  gallant  behavior,  Congress  offered 
him  the  command  of  a  regiment.  This  he  declined,  prefer 
ring  to  serve  on  the  staff  of  Pulaski,  the  son  of  his  father's 
most  devoted  adherent  in  Poland  and  his  own  personal  friend. 


THE  LESZINKSKYS.  317 

Five  months  afterward,  when  Pulaski  resigned  his  indepen 
dent  command  to  join  Washington  at  Valley  Forge,  he  was 
accompanied  by  Major  Leszinksky.  Acrain,  when  the  fa 
mous  Pulaski  Legion  was  formed,  Leszinksky  was  one  of  its 
officers. 

From  March  of  1779  until  the  following  autumn  the  Legion 
was  in  constant,  active  service  in  the  Carolinas;  and  there 
grew  an  enthusiastic  and  lifelong  friendship  between  the 
young  officer  and  the  great  partisan  generals,  Bumpier,  Ma 
rion,  and  Pickens.  At  the  siege  of  Savannah,  where  Pulaski 
was  killed,  Major  Leszinksky  lost  an  arm.  Before  he  was 
entirely  recovered,  he  started  North  to  join  Von  Steuben's  di 
vision  in  Virginia.  In  North  Carolina  he  was  captured  by 
Fanning,  the  brutal  Tory  leader,  and  condemned  to  be  hung, 
in  retaliation  for  the  recent  execution  of  a  noted  Tory  horse- 
thief.  The  fortunate  arrival  in  Fanning's  camp  of  General 
Macdonald  saved  Leszinksky. 

Macdonald's  good  offices  did  not  stop  there.  Finding  the 
young  Pole  suffering  from  his  inflamed  wound  and  distrusting 
Fanning's  good  faith,  he  insisted  on  Major  Leszinksky's 
being  paroled,  and  offered  him  the  hospitality  of  his  home  in 
Warrington,  where  his  family  then  were,  until  he  should  be 
perfectly  recovered.  The  offer  was  thankfully  accepted. 

The  Macdonald  afterwards  may  have  thought  this  soldierly 
kindness  ill  repaid.  For  when  Marion  at  length  arranged  Les 
zinksky's  exchange  for  a  tardy  British  gallant  he  had  picked 
up  in  the  swamp,  Major  Leszinksky's  leave-taking  was  so 
sudden  that  he  did  not  say  adieu  to  his  host,  although  he  car 
ried  away  with  him  the  Macdonald's  young  cousin,  the  fair 
Janet,  —  daughter  of  "  Stern  Angus  .of  the  Isles,"  —  who  was 
on  a  visit  to  her  cousins. 

Janet  Macdonald  was  married  to  her  Polish  Lochinvar  in 
Richmond.  But  from  that  instant  her  name  was  a  forbidden 
word  in  her  father's  house.  The  unforgiving  old  Highlander 
carried  his  wrath  so  far  that  he  quarrelled  with  General  Mac 
donald,  who  had  introduced  "sic  a  godless  papisher  to  the 
feckless  fule  wha  had  rin  wi'  him  to  the  deil." 

At  the  end  of  the  war  "Macdonald  of  the  Isles"  went 
back  to  Scotland,  where  he  had  fallen  heir  to  a  large  landed 
estate,  and  Janet  Leszinksky  was  never  again  counted  even 
as  "  a  far-away  Macdonald."  But  her  fair  face  and  gentle 
manners  had  won  her  favor  among  her  husband's  friends  and 
comrades.  During  her  husband's  absence  with  his  command, 
she  was  always  a  welcome  guest  at  Monticello.  The  young 
pair  were  favorites  of  Mr.  Jefferson  and  his  daughter. 

The  republicanism  of  the  great  Democrat  so  infected  the 


APPENDIX. 


Polish  descendant  of  kings  that  after  the  surrender  of  York- 
town  we  hear  no  more  of  the  title  of  the  Count  de  Deux 
Fonts;  but  General  Leszinksky,  the  retired  Continental  offi 
cer,  ended  his  life  in  Charlottesville,  where  he  had  been  ever 
since  the  close  of  the  war,  Professor  of  Modern  Languages  in 
the  University  of  Virginia. 

Her  father's  curse  had  clung  to  poor  Janet.  Three  sons 
had  been  still-born ;  for  the  life  of  the  fourth  she  paid  her 
own.  At  her  request  the  son  she  left  bore  the  name  of  her 
brother  Donald.  On  the  death  of  General  Leszinksky,  a  few 
years  later,  Mr.  Jefferson  wrote  to  "  Macdonald  of  the  Isles  " 
in  his  grandson's  behalf.  The  letter  was  never  answered, 
and  Mr.  Jefferson  was  appointed  the  boy's  guardian. 

High-tempered  and  quarrelsome,  come  of  a  race  of  soldiers, 
Donald  Leszinksky  was  entered  in  the  army  at  sixteen  years 
of  age.  He  fought  under  Jackson  in  the  War  of  1812;  was 
dismissed  the  service  for  insubordination  in  1814,  and  re-in 
stated  at  the  earnest  entreaty  of  his  father's  old  comrades. 
He  married  the  only  daughter  of  Judge  Mason  of  Albemarle, 
in  1817,  and  was  killed  in  a  duel  in  1818,  two  months  before 
the  birth  of  his  son  Stanislaus. 


Messrs,   Roberts    BrotJiers'   Publications. 

THE  NO  NAME  (SECOND)  SEBIES. 

SlGNOR  MONALDINI'S  NIECE. 

Extracts  from  some  Opinions  by  -well-known.  Authors. 

"We  have  read  'Signer  Monaldini's  Niece'  with -intensest 
interest  and  delight.  The  style  is  finished  and  elegant,  the  at 
mosphere  of  the  book  is  enchanting.  We  seem  to  have  lived  in 
Italy  while  we  were  reading  it,  The  author  has  delineated  with  a 
hand  as  steady  as  it  is  powerful  and  skilful  some  phases  of  human 
life  and  experience  that  authors  rarely  dare  attempt,  and  with 
marvellous  success.  We  think  this  volume  by  far  the  finest  of 
the  No  Name  Series." 

"  It  is  a  delicious  story.  I  feel  as  if  I  had  been  to  Italy  and 
knew  all  the  people.  .  .  .  Miss  Conroy  is  a  strong  character,  and 
her  tragedy  is  a  fine  background  for  the  brightness  of  the  other 
and  higher  natures.  It  is  all  so  dramatic  and  full  of  color  it  goes 
on  like  a  lovely  play  and  leaves  one  out  of  breath  when  the  cur 
tain  falls." 

"  I  have  re-read  it  with  great  interest,  and  think  as  highly  of  it 
as  ever.  .  .  .  The  characterization  in  it  is  capital,  and  the  talk 
wonderfully  well  done  from  first  to  last." 

"  The  new  No  Name  is  enchanting.  It  transcends  the  ordinary 
novel  just  as  much  as  a  true  poem  by  a  true  poet  transcends  the 
thousand  and  one  imitations.  ...  It  is  the  episode,  however,  of 
Miss  Conroy  and  Mrs.  Brandon  that  is  really  of  most  importance 
in  this  book.  ...  I  hope  every  woman  who  reads  this  will  be 
tempted  to  read  the  book,  and  that  she  will  in  her  turn  bring  it  to 
the  reading  of  other  women,  especially  if  she  can  find  any  Mrs. 
Brandon  in  her  circle." 

In  one  volume,  i6mo,  bound  in  green  cloth,  black  and  gilt  let 
tered.  Price  $1.00. 

Our  publications  are  to  be  had  of  all  Booksellers.  When 
not  to  be  found,  send  directly  to 

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Messrs.  Roberts  Brothers'  Publications. 


THE    "NO   NAME"    (SECOND)    SERIES. 


HIS  MAJESTY,  MYSELF. 

"  The  last  '  No  Name '  novel  cannot  long  remain  anonymous.  '  His  Majesty, 
Myself  is  so  remarkable  a  piece  of  work  that  its  author  must  be  known.  The  title- 
page  is  concise  and  brilliant,  the  opening  chapters  are  concise  and  brilliant ; 
powerfully  drawn  characters  come  and  go  in  the  story ;  brilliancy  gives  place  to 
pathos,  pathos  deepens  into  tragedy,  tragedy  is  relieved  by  wit,  wit  softened  by 
tenderness.  Scenes  of  the  homeliest  simplicity  alternate  with  those  of  the  most 
intense  emotion  and  terrible  anguish.  Characters  are  dissected,  are  analyzed  with 
consummate  skill ;  events  told  with  masterly  dramatic  power  ;  shams  are  riddled 
with  arrows  of  scorn ;  the  hidden  things  in  human  hearts  are  set  in  the  light,  and 
readers  are  forced  to  judge  themselves  in  this  powerful  revelation  of  human 
nature."  —  Boston  Daily  A  dvertiser. 

_ "  The  last  novel  of  the  '  No  Name  Series '  has  made  a  decided  sensation.  It 
gives  the  most  graphic  and  scathing  description  of  the  result  of  sensational 
preaching  —  of  the  preaching  of  the  gospel  of  Christ  with  Chujst  left  out-  It  is  a 
thoroughly  manly  and  healthy  book  to  read.  Joseph  Cook,  at  a  late  Boston  Con 
ference,  spoke  of  it  thus :  '  I  nave  just  read  "  His  Majesty,  Myself."  It  is  a  power 
ful  and  manly  book  from  beginning  to  end.  It  is  full  of  bright,  keen  Orthodoxy." 
This  is  high  praise,  but  none  too  high.  The  author,  whoever  he  be,  is  an  Ortho 
dox  evangelical  Christian,  who  has  iron  in  his  blood  and  brain,  and  who  writes 
with  a  gold  pen,  diamond-tipt.  Old  Princetonians  will  find  among  its  characters 
some  acquaintances  and  friends,  professors  and  students."  —  The  Presbyterian. 

"  This  is  one  of  the  strongest  novels  the  present  year  has  produced.  The 
course  of  a  sensational  clergyman  who  gives  his  flock  truth  garnered  from  the 
newspapers  instead  of  from  the  Bible,  and  proclaims  himself  far  more  than  his 
Lord,  is  thinkingly  depicted.  The  whole  book  is  one  of  the  keenest  descriptions 
of  the  terrible  nature  of  selfishness  we  have  ever  read,  and  if  it  is  not  marked  in 
stantly  as  one  of  the  most  powerful  of  the  most  remarkable  series  to  which  it 
belongs,  we  shall  be  greatly  surprised."  —  Christian  Intelligencer. 

"  No  one  will  take  exception  to  the  statement  that '  His  Majesty,  Myself,'  the 
latest '  No  Name '  novel,  is  a  powerful  book  It  is  a  work  which  is  as  marked  in 
vigor  as  it  is  in  originality.  No  one  but  a  man  of  genius  could  have  written  it. 
No  person  can  read  it  without  receiving  a  marked  impression.  It  is  one  of  those 
stones  which  must  remain  in  the  memory,  and  this  long  after  tales  which  have 
more  of  unity  and  are  much  more."  —  Saturday  Evening  Gazette* 

"  As  an  exhibit  of  sound  religious  thinking  and  pure  religious  feeling,  as  far  re 
moved  from  '  loose  notions '  and  weak  sentiment  on  the  one  side  as  from  dead 
formalism  and  cold  cant  on  the  other,  it  has  few  equals.  He  has  written  a  Fifth 
Gospel,  and  we  reckon  him  a  true  evangelist,"  says  a  retired  clergyman. 

In  one  volume,  IGmo.    Green  cloth.    Price  81.00. 


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